Not the John Watson You Know
by Roxanne15927
Summary: John has been acting strange lately, and the reason behind it is nothing Sherlock could have ever imagined. Further description will give it away, so please read, review, and share! No slash. 18 chapters total. Complete!
1. Problem?

Where was John?

He had left about two hours ago, where, Sherlock wasn't sure. He hadn't been listening, and why would he need to? He had been deeply absorbed in an experiment involving a chemical that he had just recently been able to acquire from the lab- and the effects it could have on human flesh, much more fascinating than listening to John go on about his day plans. Unfortunately, Sherlock's experiment did not yield the results he had hoped for, and now he was bored and wondering where John had gone off to.

Well, Sherlock Holmes had better things to do than worry about John Watson's whereabouts.

_He can take care of himself,_ Sherlock thought, and for a moment he wasn't certain if he was referring to himself or John.

After two more hours passed, Sherlock decided he must be at the surgery today (though he couldn't imagine why, John had not gone for a few weeks now, perhaps he went now to help pay for rent?), because the grocery store or a date would not take this long.

_Where are you? -SH_

No reply.

_Surely you cannot be doing anything so important that you cannot come home. -SH_

_We need milk. -SH_

This last text Sherlock sent out of desperation, or out of whatever feeling that was close enough to desperation for Sherlock Holmes. Texting John about the milk always seemed to inspire a reply. For some reason it annoyed John to always buy the milk, so Sherlock had used this many times to his advantage.

No reply.

It was 4:00 pm. John usually left surgery by 5:00, so he would not think about it until then.

This was getting ridiculous. Not knowing where John was was disturbing his experiments, he found he could hardly concentrate. Growling in frustration, Sherlock risked a glance at the clock.

4:03.

He was going to lose his mind.

###

No cases!

Sherlock was seriously fighting the urge to hurl his phone at the wall. Lestrade had nothing for him, not a single blasted thing! He would take a missing pet case at this point, but London was quiet today.

The only thing keeping him from smashing his phone was the fact that John could text any minute. He settled for hurling it savagely into the couch, which was only a tiny bit satisfying.

He marched over to the mantelpiece and swiped an ugly vase which had been a gift from-oh, he didn't know, he had deleted it-and without further ado, threw it into the wall, the vase exploding in a shower of green and brown.

5:02.

He flopped onto the couch, sulking. What he'd ever done to deserve this, he didn't know.

_COME HOME. -SH_

_###_

___6:30._

This. Was. Ridiculous.

Sherlock was about ready to consider calling his brother about John, but no, he would not allow himself to stoop so low.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and he sprung up from the couch. "I swear, if you are NOT John, I will set this flat on fire," He muttered to himself.

Fortunately for the flat, John stepped into the room.

"Where were you all day?" Sherlock demanded to know.

John was eerily silent, standing in the darkness and watching him with an odd expression, one that Sherlock could not quite place in the darkness.

"What?"

For a moment, he briefly wondered whether he said anything that had offended John that morning. Impossible, John had been out the door before there had been any time for that to happen.

John still said nothing.

"What is this about?" Sherlock repeated. "Going to stand there all night, are you?"

"No," John said at last. The strange expression disappeared, and John shook his head as if trying to get water out of his ears. "I don't-"He cut off, and looked almost scared.

"Don't what?"

"Nothing, Sherlock," John said quickly, arranging his face into an easy smile.

"John, I-"

"It's nothing, Sherlock, really," John insisted. "I'm going to make coffee."

Coffee?

"This late in the evening?"

"Yes," said John curtly, heading towards the kitchen. "Problem?"

"No..."

"Want some then?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Sherlock followed John into the kitchen, watching him make the coffee with interest. John usually drank tea before bed, not coffee, and John had still not said a word about where he had been all day (not that he exactly needed to, Sherlock could see the doctor's bag by the door, and the faintest smell of perfume, he must have talked to Sarah for a bit after work), and John usually made it a point to tell Sherlock what he had done that day, whether he was particularly interested or not.

John slid a cup of coffee into Sherlock's hands. "There you go."

Sherlock took a sip (black, two sugars) and then remembered to say thank you.

"No problem," John said, sipping his own. "What have you been up to?"

Sherlock launched into a detailed account of what results he had made in his experiments. John was having coffee, anyways, so he wasn't likely to go to bed anytime soon.

John sighed and settled into his armchair with his coffee, and the incident was quickly forgotten.

Until-

"Sherlock! What in the bloody h-you better have an amazing explanation for this!"

Oh.

He had quite forgotten about the vase.

###

"I'm sure you can find your own way out." John said coldly.

Sherlock had come home to find John staring down some man in their living room. The man was middle aged, hair greying at the temples,(had three cats, a wife, and a cheap job in an office) and was a few inches taller than John. He was perfectly harmless, but John looked annoyed, almost angry.

"Of course," said the man. "Good day." The man pulled his coat from the rack (John must have invited him inside) and left quickly.

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked.

"Just an old acquaintance," John replied coolly.

"What did he want?"

"A favor."

John did not elaborate, and for once Sherlock did not push the matter.

"I'll be in the kitchen," he said to John, who had turned on the telly and did not respond.

###

John didn't bring up the man again, and eventually Sherlock filed the incident under 'Irrelevant'.

John did seem a bit more testy than usual, but Sherlock decided it must be because of all the time he was spending at the surgery lately, and they just had started an exciting case. Three different people had been found, beaten senseless and left for dead in random locations. There was no connection with the victims or the locations at all. Not murder, but definitely a very close second in Sherlock's book. The most Sherlock could tell was that it was a one man job, the victims were all caught by surprise and had had no time to defend themselves-their attacker had been quick and efficient. Each victim was tortured more than the last, the most recent victim was barely clinging to life when they found him, the first only dazed. This was a man who knew just how much a person could take, how far you could push them before it was too late. None of the victims remembered their attacker when they awoke.

A note was left with each victim.

'This one got off easy.'

'Close, but no cigar.'

'I won't play so nice next time.'

Each note was a clue to where he would strike next. Sherlock was thrilled with this game, much to John's dismay. He hadn't had this much fun with a case in months, and was intrigued with all the questions. Why didn't the attacker kill his victims? Serial beatings, that was one Scotland Yard had not heard before. Serial suicides, serial killings, but serial beatings was something entirely new. And why did they increase with intensity each time, what was his motive?

One thing Sherlock did know was that the attacker was watching and knew his every move. He knew this because of the clues-each one was a reference to something said, done, or visited in Sherlock's life. The first clue was a quote from a movie John had forced Sherlock to see at the cinema, and sure enough, the second victim was found there, but with no sign of the attacker. Finding the victim at the right time was the trick, the attacker apparently was enjoying watching Sherlock try to guess at what time he would strike, and Sherlock hated having to guess.

The third victim was found behind the smoke shop that supplied Sherlock's secret stash. John was irritated, to say the least, that Sherlock was still buying stashes of cigarettes to save for later, and that he had gone so far out of his way to do so, and he let him know, loudly, as they got into the taxi to the smoke shop.

"You refuse a ten minute trip to the grocery, but you'll take an hour trip both ways to the smoke shop?" John looked absolutely livid.

"It's hardly a frequent trip, John-"

"We agreed, Sherlock!"

"No, you agreed. I never did anything of the sort."

"Yes we did, Sherlock, you looked at me and you said-"

"You and I know perfectly well that I didn't truly mean that."

"No, no I didn't. I actually thought-" John cut himself off.

"What?"

"No. Nothing."

"John-"

"You won't believe this. I actually thought that you would actually be able to do the normal thing and be reasonable! But, no, of course not, Sherlock Holmes is too much of a freak to do anything normal!"

Sherlock flinched and quickly looked away in order to hide whatever feelings his expression may have betrayed. Sherlock was no stranger to being called a freak, he had endured it countless times over the years, had trained himself to ignore it. It had become easy because those people who thought he was a freak, their opinions did not matter to him in the slightest, they meant absolutely nothing.

But hearing it from someone whose opinion did matter-that was something he had not prepared for.

They spent the rest of the taxi ride in a stony, cold silence.

###

Unfortunately, the tension between them did not go unnoticed at the crime scene.

"Trouble in paradise?" Anderson sneered. "Has John finally come to his senses and broken up with you?"

Sherlock barely had time to react before John lunged. Anderson jumped backwards with an odd little squeak, eliciting laughter from the officers around them. Sherlock would have loved to laugh at him as well, but he was still straining to keep John back.

"You might want to consider getting your girlfriend on a leash," Anderson snarled.

With that, John doubled his efforts, and if Sherlock wasn't already struggling before, he certainly was now.

"Enough!" Lestrade had arrived at the scene (and not a moment too soon).

Thankfully, John stopped at the sound of Lestrade's voice. "Let go," he hissed, shrugging off Sherlock's hands.

"...bloody ridiculous," Lestrade was saying. "Now if you three are ready to behave like adults, we have a crime scene to look at." He turned and stalked off.

"Dr. Watson," Anderson snapped, and with a quick nod followed after Lestrade.

"John-"

"Save it, Sherlock, okay? I'm not in the mood," John said.

"I don't much care if you are or not, John, we need to have a talk." Sherlock cringed slightly at the word 'talk'. No wonder everyone believed they were a couple. 'It's just collecting data', he told himself, but it didn't make him feel any better or any less awkward.

"We have a crime scene to look at. You actually want to have a talk instead of going to the crime scene?"

John had him there. Though Sherlock was quite curious about John's odd behavior lately, his desire to examine the scene of a third serial beating (and to avoid discussing feelings) was winning out.

"You're right. It can wait." Sherlock immediately set off towards the crime scene, with John following behind.


	2. Won't Play Nice

2. Won't Play Nice

"I won't play so nice next time." Sherlock muttered to himself, pacing back and forth. "I won't play so nice next time." Sherlock had been repeating the phrase to himself for about ten minutes, and getting nowhere. The only thing that had been obvious was that the attacker was planning to escalate to murder-this most recent victim was perilously close to death, and seeing as the attacks' intensity grew each time, there was no way the next victim would survive. It was imperative that they reached the next victim before it was too late.

"You're stuck." John commented from behind his newspaper.

"I'm not stuck."

"Okay."

"I don't understand!" Sherlock suddenly exploded. "This can't be the whole clue, it could mean so many different things!"

"There isn't anything significant that you have noticed?"

"I have noticed a great deal of things, that's the problem, John!"

"So you're telling me that you can't single out anything? Anything at all?"

Sherlock huffed and resumed his pacing.

He supposed there was one thing, one memory that he had buried and pushed so far back into the corners of his mind that he had almost forgotten it had existed.

But it would be too obvious.

Wouldn't it?

_Sherlock was ten years old again, running to the old playground, his breath coming in quick gasps as he tried to find a place to hide. Two boys, Gary and Joe, were not far behind._

_Sherlock had been able to avoid Gary and Joe for three peaceful weeks. This old, abandoned playground had been the perfect spot, quiet, out of the way, and most didn't even know it existed. It had been his refuge._

_But for Sherlock Holmes, places of refuge never lasted for very long._

_"Come on out and play, Sherly!" Gary called._

_Sherlock tried to ignore the sound of Gary's voice (and the fear that was threatening to take over) scanning the playground equipment. He couldn't hide just anywhere, he needed a place where only he could fit. Gary and Joe's footsteps were becoming increasingly louder, and then Sherlock found his solution, squeezing into a half crushed tube slide._

_It did the trick._

_Gary and Joe tried to force their way into the tube for two full minutes, then all was deathly quiet. For a minute, the only sound was Sherlock's barely restrained breathing. Suddenly, the tube gave an awful lurch, and then Sherlock's entire world was spinning, bouncing up and down, then coming to an abrupt stop._

_Sherlock heard the squeaking sound of a marker on plastic for a few moments, then the sound of laughter and fading footsteps._

_Sherlock remained curled up in the tube for a long time after that, dizzy and frightened. Eventually, he crawled out of the tube, already forming a story to tell his mother about where he had been, standing up and brushing the dirt off his trousers._  
_That was when he saw the message scrawled across the tube in black marker._

_"To Sherly:_  
_We won't play so nice next time."_

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He wasn't surprised to see the flat dark, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence for him to become so wrapped up in his thoughts that he wouldn't even notice the world moving on without him.

He was sitting in his chair, hands folded in his lap. What was that in his hand? A note.

'Gone out with Sarah, should be back by midnight. Left some dinner in the fridge. -John'

Sherlock snatched John's laptop off the table and easily hacked in. A few minutes later, he had what he needed. He stood up, tossing the laptop carelessly onto the couch, and put on his coat.

He had a criminal to catch.

**Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short, but it felt more appropriate standing by itself rather than with the next chapter.**

**I promise the next chapter will be much longer...and pretty dramatic.**


	3. Took You Long Enough

3. Took You Long Enough

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock arrived. The sight of the playground threatened to conjure other childhood memories, but Sherlock pushed them away and walked on. Suddenly, he heard the distant, pained cries of a man being tortured, and the sound of metal hitting flesh. Sherlock crept forward, following the sound, and hid behind the playground equipment. He was close enough to see the silhouettes of the attacker and his victim when the cries unexpectedly ceased.

"I know you're there," said a voice. "You might as well come out, I have been waiting for you."

Sherlock stiffened.

No. No, his mind was playing tricks on him. That voice, there was no way it could be-

"I said, come out, Sherlock."

Sherlock emerged from his hiding spot slowly, staring hard at the silhouette of the man in front of him, trying to make out his features.  
"Ah, you want a better look. No problem."

Suddenly, a lamppost to the side of Sherlock flickered to life, casting a dim light onto the beaten man lying between them. Sherlock's stomach clenched. He recognized that man...

A moment's silence. "Oh, a better look at me," the voice said mockingly. "Of course."

And John Watson stepped out into the light.

Sherlock shouldn't have been shocked, this was confirming what he already knew from hearing the voice-but seeing him, seeing the actual proof before his eyes was what did it, causing a reaction that he had never experienced before. A feeling so painful it was almost physical, a tearing, burning feeling in his chest. Betrayed. He never, not in a thousand years thought this would happen to him, not now, not John. John, the only man in the world who had ever carried the title of being Sherlock's friend-his best friend, his brother...

And it was all coming together now, making a sick, terrible sort of sense.

John was an army doctor, of course he knew how much could kill a man, and what would leave him barely hanging on. He had known a surprising vast amount about each attack-and John had never been there when they had discovered the victims, had been missing each time, the odd behavior, the evidence, it had been there all along, should have been glaringly obvious, but Sherlock had ignored it because John was his friend. He had ignored it because John would never do something like this, not his John, the man who had made him better, had proved to the world that Sherlock Holmes did indeed have a heart.

"John." He spoke at last, but he didn't sound like himself, this voice sounded lost, confused, hurt.

And none of those words were ever supposed to apply to Sherlock Holmes.

"Took you long enough." A creepy, predatory smile spread across John's face, an expression that Sherlock was so familiar with, one that he had seen on almost every criminal he had encountered. But seeing it on John's face was definitely not something he was used to.

"That's the man who came to our flat," Sherlock said finally.

The beaten man moaned softly, almost as if in response.

"Yes," John said nonchalantly. "You picked the most convenient time to come, Sherlock, really. Two more good hits and Mr. Brown here would be dead." John said. He accentuated his last word with a vicious blow to Brown's back.

"John!"

"Stay back, Sherlock. You'll have your turn."

"I won't let you," Sherlock said. "You know I won't."

"Yeah, I know," John said, and suddenly Sherlock was on the ground, blood pouring from his now broken nose, head spinning from the hit that had come out of nowhere.

"It must be my lucky night," John said from above him. "Two victims within minutes of each other? Brilliant." He laughed, but it wasn't the easy giggle that Sherlock was so used to hearing. It was a cruel and harsh sound, and it chilled Sherlock to the bone.

Sherlock was more prepared this time when John struck again, but John was too fast, his blow catching Sherlock's shoulder as he tried to roll away.  
John swung again, and Sherlock reached out and stopped the weapon with his hand, his stomach clenching when he saw the weapon was John's cane.

John reacted with a swift, hard kick to Sherlock's ribs, the bones breaking with a sickening snap. Sherlock gasped, rolling to his side, coughing violently, spitting blood onto the pavement.

John knelt down next to him. "Now that you see what I can do...what do you think?"

Sherlock couldn't respond, he could barely even breathe through the pain. But he had to think, he had to stop John, but even moving sounded impossible.

"I'll...I'll...stop...you," Sherlock panted.

"I would really like to see that, Sherlock," John laughed. "But for now...I have some unfinished business."

His phone, Sherlock had to get to his phone...

John got up, taking his bloodied cane with him.

Sherlock reached into his coat, his ribs and shoulder loudly protesting the movement, but he ignored it and kept going, feeling around for his phone.  
John walked back to Mr. Brown, swinging his cane back and forth.

Sherlock's hand closed around his phone, feeling for the keys. He would have to rely on touch, it would be too dangerous to pull it out.  
Thank goodness Sherlock had Lestrade on speed dial.

He dialed a 3, then what was hopefully the call button.

He almost sighed with relief when he heard Lestrade's voice coming faintly from his phone.

Using most of what was remaining of his strength, Sherlock stood up.

"I'll...stop you," he said again, louder this time.

"You're too late," John said. He raised his cane.

"No!" Sherlock shouted. He didn't know what it was, what had given him the burst of strength he needed, but it was enough. John, who had not been expecting Sherlock to be able to raise any kind of defense, was not able to respond in time. Sherlock tackled John to the ground, and they crashed hard. With John momentarily stunned, Sherlock smashed his forehead into John's.

Sherlock's entire world was spinning now, feeling as if he was going to vomit. He could hear Lestrade's voice still coming faintly from inside his coat.  
"Hurry, Lestrade!" He said dazedly, hoping that he had spoken loud enough to be heard.

Sherlock rolled off John, who had been knocked unconscious from his blow. He sat up slowly and tried to breathe, but each breath felt like a knife in his chest. He just had to hold on until Lestrade got there, but holding on was becoming harder with each passing second...

###

Lestrade was about ready to hang up on Sherlock. He must have pocket dialed Lestrade by mistake, and he didn't have time for this, he was on his way to investigate a suspect in the serial beatings case (Sherlock had ridiculous timing-Lestrade had been _this_ close to leaving!) and now he was listening to some random, meaningless scuffling noises.

Lestrade was about to press the END button when he heard it.

"Hurry, Lestrade."

It was Sherlock's voice, but it sounded funny, his breath coming in small, labored gasps. It wasn't hard to deduce that Sherlock was injured, and badly at that. "Stay awake," he commanded. "Hold on, you great idiot." He put on his siren and shifted into drive.

###

Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed since he had called Lestrade. He could barely think, which would frustrate him if he even had enough strength to do that. He was vaguely aware of Lestrade telling him to do something...stay...stay awake? His eyelids felt heavy, as if they were being dragged down with weights. Sleep...he wanted to sleep...

Then he heard the sound of sirens, which perked him up a bit. Lestrade! He just had to hold on for a few moments longer...

###

Lestrade slammed the car door. "Spread out!" He yelled at the other officers. "He's here somewhere!"

Lestrade ran on ahead towards the run down playground, the paramedics and a few officers close behind. "Sherlock!" Lestrade called, straining to hear any sort of answer, a moan, any noise that would reveal Sherlock's whereabouts.

Lestrade only had to walk a little farther before he saw him. "There!"

He ran to the dark figure laying unconscious on the ground.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade started to say, when the figure sprung up and punched Lestrade in the face. He stumbled backwards, reeling into an officer behind him.

"Get back! Get back, or I kill them both, understand?" The man shouted.

"John?" Lestrade said, shocked. "Is that you?"

"Just step away, Detective Inspector, nice and easy."

Lestrade took a step backwards, hand going to his gun. "John," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady and even, "What is going on?"

Almost as in response, a lamppost came on, illuminating John Watson holding a bloodied cane, two crumpled bodies laying at his feet. One was Sherlock, and the other was someone he did not recognize, both badly beaten.

"You-you're _him_."

John rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"I'm going to need you to step away and drop your weapon, Dr. Watson." Lestrade said, pulling his gun, causing John to twitch slightly, but then he smiled.

"Of course, Detective Inspector." He dropped his cane and stepped away, his hands in the air.

Lestrade nodded to the others. The paramedics rushed forward, and he handcuffed John with ease. To the side, he heard Sherlock yelling,  
"Get off-get off!"

Lestrade turned to see several paramedics attempting to lift the injured detective onto the stretcher, who was twisting, writhing and generally making the kind of fuss an average person with his injuries would not even try due to the pain. But of course, Sherlock Holmes wasn't average, and of course he would still be stubborn as the devil even after being beaten half to death. Lestrade sighed and pushed John towards the other officers.

"Take him to the car," he said. They nodded and took him away.

Lestrade crouched down next to the struggling detective, who was now panting heavily from the exertion.

"Sherlock, do you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded jerkily, eyes unfocused.

"Good, then listen. You need to go with the paramedics. Stop fighting them."

"I...don't want... hospital," Sherlock said, breathing heavily. "I...want...I want John."

"You want John to treat you?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded again, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Sherlock, John can't treat you, okay? Not anymore. You need to go with the paramedics."

"I...I don't want...them," Sherlock muttered. "Want...John. Please..."

Lestrade heart stopped, finally realizing what Sherlock meant.

Sherlock may have been delirious, but he knew perfectly well John couldn't treat him, perfectly aware of everything that had happened.  
No, Sherlock Holmes just wanted his best friend back.

The paramedics came and loaded him onto the stretcher now that he was subdued, ignoring his feeble protests that were becoming fainter and fainter.  
Lestrade watched as they took him away, and he realized he wished he could keep Sherlock from waking up to a world without his only friend in it.

**Author's Note: Okay, so I am pretty sure I know what you are thinking, but don't freak out! Well do, but not too much, because all is not as it seems. Stay with me, it will be worth it, I promise! Please let me know what you think! I have been really curious as to what your reactions would be to this chapter, so please review! **

**On another note, the next chapter will probably take a little longer than the others, so I would love it if you would check out my other story, 'Until the End', and let me know what you think!**


	4. You Know What I Want

4. You Know What I Want

Lestrade walked briskly down the hospital hallway. It had been three days since the 'incident'. Sherlock had been heavily sedated, partly to recover from his extensive injuries, and partly to keep him from disturbing the most tender part of the recovery process; judging by his actions at the playground, he wasn't going to treat himself gently.

Lestrade had called the hospital that morning to check on Sherlock. After convincing the hospital staff that though he was not listed as an emergency contact, he was one now, they told him that they planned to take Sherlock off the sedatives later that afternoon, and asked him to be there when he awoke. Lestrade was feeling horribly awkward with the whole situation, but knew he needed to be there for Sherlock, because the person who normally would have been there for him, couldn't and wouldn't be anymore.

Lestrade approached the front desk.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist asked, a fake smile appearing on her face.

"Ah, yes, I am here to see Sherlock Holmes?"

"Of course." Her eyes moved away from him to the screen, and for a few moments there was only the sound of the clicking of her manicured nails against the keys.

"Yes, here it is." She scanned the computer screen. "Are you Dr. John Watson?" She asked absentmindedly, already writing 'John Watson' on a blank name tag.

Lestrade mentally winced. "Um, no. I'm actually not listed, I'm Greg Lestrade, I spoke with the staff earlier-"

"Oh, I'm sorry." The lady said, not sounding very sorry at all. She scratched out what she had written, and squeezed Lestrade's name into the small space that was left. She handed it to him. "Second floor, room 221."

Lestrade gave the lady a half smile, half grimace, and stuffed the name tag in his pocket, setting off for Sherlock's room. As he was walking, he realized he was actually _nervous_. Lestrade had known Sherlock for years, but Lestrade still could not honestly say he _knew_ Sherlock. John Watson probably was the only man who could claim that. This shouldn't be Lestrade's job, this felt wrong, it should be John walking to Sherlock's hospital room, being there when the detective woke up, not Lestrade. He only knew how to deal with Sherlock at crime scenes, but never outside of work, he didn't even know if Sherlock considered him a friend, or even if Lestrade himself did. What they were was not quite friends, though you certainly couldn't call them acquaintances, but they were more than colleagues as well.

Lestrade paused outside Sherlock's door, and took a deep breath. He opened the door slowly, carefully, to reveal Sherlock stretched out on the hospital bed, sleeping. Unfortunately, he still looked as terrible as when Lestrade had found him, though he was at least cleaned up and bandaged now.

Lestrade pulled up a folding chair from the corner of the room, and put it beside Sherlock's bed. He settled into it, releasing a sigh as he got comfortable.

The room was quiet, save only for the soft sound of Lestrade and Sherlock's breathing, and the beeping from the machines. Lestrade felt awkward, wondering what the devil he was supposed to do-was he supposed to say something? He cleared his throat, once, twice. "Sherlock-" He began, but was interrupted by a doctor and a nurse entering the room. Lestrade stood up swiftly, and turned to the doctor, an older, thin man who looked like he needed a hospital bed himself.

The doctor checked his clipboard. "Dr. John Watson, is it?"

Lestrade shook his head, and suppressed a sigh. He knew he should have worn that bloody name tag. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Dr. Watson is unavailable at the moment."

"Ah. Thank you for coming, Detective Inspector. Addy, if you would be so kind as to take Mr. Holmes off the sedative..."

Addy obliged, and the doctor nodded to Lestrade. "It should be just a few minutes, so just pull up a chair and wait. Addy will return in a few minutes to check on him."

He and Addy left Lestrade alone with Sherlock, who was already beginning to stir. Sherlock's brow furrowed, one eye opening slightly, then closing again. He moaned softly.

"Sherlock?"

The detective was already trying to sit up, his eyes still tightly shut, groaning as he lost what little energy he had gained, sinking into his pillows. Moments later, he was trying again, attempting to force his body to move upwards, but failing.

"Sherlock, stop that! You need to give it time."

The detective grunted angrily, frustrated over his temporary lack of motor skills. Lestrade stood up, pushing the determined Sherlock back down. "If you would just give it a minute or two, Sherlock, you will be fine. Now quit trying to rush it!"

Sherlock complied now, but only because he didn't quite have the strength to disobey. He surprisingly stayed still for the next few minutes, creating yet another awkward silence as the sedative slowly wore off.

"How long?" He asked, his voice slurring a bit.

"Three days."

"Hmph. Details, Lestrade." He said irritably.

"The-the case?"

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, the case."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face. "The whole thing's very hush hush, need to know basis. Only thing we've released to the press is that we have the suspect in custody. Press would go crazy if they knew it was Sherlock Holmes' partn-" He cut off when he heard a sharp inhale from the detective, and Lestrade cursed himself for his mistake. He really was no good at this hospital bedside thing.

"Uh, anyways...that's all, really," Lestrade said hurriedly. Sherlock simply looked up to the ceiling.

"Have you interrogated him?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"...Yes. Not talking though."

Sherlock didn't respond, still staring intently upwards.

Lestrade swallowed uncomfortably, and decided to change the subject.

"Got a call from Mrs. Hudson asking where you were. She just got back from her sister's-"

"What did you tell her?" Sherlock demanded, turning his sharp gaze to Lestrade.

"I didn't get the chance to tell her anything, I had to-"

"You can't tell her."

"Sherlock, she's worried about you, of course I'm going to tell her!"

"Fine. But you can't tell her about _him_ then."

"Sherlock, you can't ask me to-"

"I'm not asking." Sherlock was glaring at him now, daring the inspector to even try to say no.

"Alright. I won't tell her." Lestrade said resignedly.

Sherlock nodded once, and resumed staring at the ceiling. "Good. Now go away."

"Go away?" Lestrade sputtered.

"Yes, go. You've done what you came here for, and I don't want anyone's company right now."

Lestrade threw his hands into the air. "Fine, I'll go away. I'll let you know if anything happens with the case."

Sherlock grunted noncommittally and rolled over, turning his back to Lestrade. The inspector took this to mean goodbye, and walked out.

He stopped right outside, and for whatever reason turned back to look. Sherlock was curled into a fetal position, face half buried in his pillow, looking rather like a lost child who had been left alone one too many times.

Lestrade didn't want to see this anymore. He turned on his heel and walked away, the image of Sherlock curled up on his hospital bed burned into his brain.

###

"Still nothing?"

Donovan sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Yes. He hasn't said a word."

The inspector closed his eyes. "I'll go and try."

They both turned to look at John, who was sitting on the other side of the glass, appearing as if he didn't have a care in the world, staring hard in their direction. She knew that John couldn't actually see them, but it was still creepy.

Donovan repressed a shiver. She still couldn't believe that John Watson had been the one behind all this, and that every single one of them had missed it, had not even noticed him doing it right under their noses. And how did Sherlock Holmes, the man who never missed anything, how in the world did he miss this? He _lived_ with the man, for crying out loud! Somehow John Watson, this seemingly ordinary, every day man had snaked his way into the Freak's life and tricked them all.

Lestrade nodded once at Donovan and opened the door into the interrogation room. He walked in and silently took the seat across from John.

"Ready to talk yet?" Lestrade said.

John smiled, cocked his head. "Now, it won't be _that_ simple, Detective Inspector."

"I think it will be. There's something that you want, isn't there?"

John's smile grew broader. "Perhaps there is."

"What is it then?" Lestrade asked a bit testily, his fist clenching under the table.

John chuckled. "Really, Detective, don't be daft. You do know what I want. You just don't want to consider it."

Lestrade's face tightened slightly. "I'm afraid you'll just be disappointed."

"Then I'm afraid you will be as well."

Lestrade pounded a fist on the table.

"This is not negotiable, I won't do it."

"If you want me to talk, you will. You can do whatever you like, send in as many people as you want, but you won't get a thing out of me, not unless you do it, so I suggest-"

Lestrade suddenly reached across the table, seizing John's collar and yanking him upwards, breathing hard and looking furious.

"You think that I am going to just _give_ him to you after what you did?"

"I think you will, because no matter how much you claim to care about him, the job comes first, doesn't it?" John said, his smile curling into a sneer. "This is your chance, Inspector. You may resist for now, but we both know that eventually, you'll have to give in."

Lestrade's face crumpled into an expression of what looked like defeat, and he let John fall back into his chair.

He stood up, his expression becoming cold again.

"The answer is no. Have fun rotting in prison then."

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

**Author's Note: I know very little about sedatives and hospital procedures, so I had to guess a little about some things. Anyways, let me know what you think! **


	5. Time to Burn

5. Time to Burn

Every day John said more or less the same thing- "Sherlock or nothing."

Lestrade tried everything he could think of, but John remained infuriatingly quiet, never responding to anything Lestrade did, and he was running out of options. Sending Sherlock in would be the worst thing he could do, but as the days wore on, Lestrade was getting more and more desperate. He knew all along that John had been right, that his job would have to come first and he was going to have to make Sherlock face his ex-best friend.

Sherlock was still in the hospital, mostly because of the influence of the one and only Mycroft Holmes. He insisted that Sherlock would not give himself the time he needed to recover, and he was probably right about that. The detective had already tried to escape the hospital several times, ending in nasty bumps and bruises when the sedatives did their job and kept him from being able to properly walk, thus resulting in Mycroft extending the detective's stay at the hospital, and upping the sedatives. Needless to say, Sherlock was not happy with his brother, which was not an uncommon occurrence. But it wasn't just Mycroft; ever since the incident, Sherlock had been anything but happy. He hadn't even been acting quite like his normal self, and whenever he did, it seemed forced, as if trying to convince everyone (including himself) that he was fine.

So how could Lestrade justify making Sherlock interrogate John?

He couldn't believe he was doing this. He should not be doing this. Lestrade was back in the hospital, walking slowly towards Sherlock's hospital room. _There isn't any other way._ He told himself as he approached the door. He knocked once, earning a muffled affirmative grunt from inside the room.

He opened the door. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, arms folded, staring at the wall. There was a stack of files on the bedside table; Molly had brought him a few cold cases to try to keep him entertained. Surprisingly, they were untouched. This concerned Lestrade. Sherlock never turned down unsolvable cases, ever.

"You want me to interrogate Dr. Watson."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock laughed drily. "I'll say it again, then, slowly, if you like. You want me to interrogate Dr. Watson." he repeated, enunciating each word as if speaking to a particularly slow person.

"Who said anything about-"

"Oh please, Lestrade, it's so stupidly obvious even you could see it if you just _tried _for once. Don't bother to ask me to explain, because I'm not going to. So let's skip the part where you babble on about nothing, and cut to the chase, shall we? You want me to interrogate Dr. Watson, not just because you can't get him to talk, but because he won't talk unless I come personally and speak to him myself, is that right, Inspector?"

"Yes, but-"

"Ah, and you don't want me to go, but your duties must come first, so here you are, desperate for any solution, whatever the risk, yes? Well, let me ease your mind, Inspector. I will go, and let me assure you, I am in _no _need of protection, regardless of what you and my brother think."

This wasn't the first time Sherlock had deduced Lestrade like this, so he shouldn't have felt so shocked, and exposed. But this time was different, Sherlock's tone was bitter, hostile even.

"Finished?" Lestrade asked sarcastically.

"For now." Sherlock deadpanned. "When do I talk to him?"

Lestrade hesitated. "I guess...as soon as we can get clearance from your brother to let you leave the hospital."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said, but not sounding pleased in the slightest.

###

Mycroft agreed to let Sherlock leave to interrogate John-but on one condition.

He was to accompany him.

Lestrade was a bit insulted that Mycroft thought that the inspector couldn't handle babysitting Sherlock for a few hours, but he gave in, mostly because he expected Sherlock to put up a fight. The detective did nothing, just nodded his head and was silent, and the arrangements were made.

Lestrade walked with Sherlock out of the hospital. The nurses had tried to put the detective in a wheelchair, but he refused, calling them not-so-nice words and brushing them off. They were detained only when Lestrade told them he would walk with Sherlock and make sure he was alright, though he did wish Sherlock would have swallowed his bloody pride and taken the wheelchair, the inspector knew that walking around with broken ribs (that, and combined with his other injuries) was no picnic. They took a taxi to the Yard, both of them silent the entire way.

Mycroft was waiting for them outside the interrogation room, standing on the other side of the two way glass, watching John intently.

Sherlock glanced at John once, and looked away quickly.

"Are you sure you're ok to do this?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm fine. You're the one that seems nervous. Are _you_ ok to do this?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Don't worry about me," Lestrade replied.

"Not a problem," Sherlock said.

"Are you ready?"

The detective nodded. "Yes."

"Go on, then."

Sherlock squared his shoulders and went inside. Lestrade and Mycroft watched him enter into the other side, and taking a seat across John, who didn't seem to notice he was there. The doctor's forehead was shiny with sweat, his eyes vacant, staring off into space.

Suddenly, he shook his head, blinking rapidly, his eyes darting around until they came to rest on Sherlock. He seemed genuinely confused for just a moment, then his expression cleared, his face turning hard again.

"I see Lestrade convinced you to come out of hiding," John said.

"He didn't convince me to do anything," Sherlock said coldly. "I came of my own accord."

"Took you awhile, didn't it? What, were you nervous?"

"Biding my time," Sherlock answered smoothly. "Now, you said you would be willing to talk, so talk."

John laughed. "What do you want me to say? I beat those people, I have no problem admitting that. But you want to know why, of course. I think you can answer that."

"Can I?"

"Why do you think I asked for you specifically?"

"This would be easier on both of us if you would just cooperate, Dr. Watson."

"Dr. Watson?" John asked. "Since when do you call me Dr. Watson?" He was smirking.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "Doesn't matter. Do you have an employer? Personal vendetta? What about accomplices?"

"Are you afraid to say my name?" John said, his tone similar to one he would use for a child.

"Don't change the subject, you agreed to talk!"

"And I am," John said. "I just want to know the answer to my question first."

Sherlock's fist clenched under the table, his knuckles turning white. "I ask the questions," he said.

John looked amused. "You are afraid, aren't you? Does my name bring back too many painful memories?" He taunted.

"This is going nowhere," Lestrade said to Mycroft.

"Wait." Mycroft replied.

"Did you bring me here to talk, or did you just bring me here to bully me?" Sherlock asked, his voice low, his face expressionless. To anyone else, the detective would have appeared indifferent, but Lestrade knew better. "He's not ready to do this," Lestrade said. "Look, John knows it too, we have to get him out of there."

Mycroft ignored him and continued watching John.

John smiled. "Maybe both. It's working, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

John sighed dramatically. "Alright, yes, I did promise information. You asked if I have an employer. You could say I do, he's the one who sent me to you in the first place."

"He?"

John smiled and went on. "He needed an inside man, and I was the one for the job. I was a respected, trustworthy army doctor, there was no reason that you would ever be suspicious of me, ever even imagine that I was anything more. That was your first mistake, Sherlock. Underestimating me. You never even knew what I was capable of, because you were always too busy thinking about how brilliant _you_ are," John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "You never saw me."

Sherlock's face was quickly losing color, staring at John as though he was seeing a ghost. He cleared his throat. "Why did he need you? If he wanted to spy on my life, there are more convenient ways."

"It wasn't just about the information," John replied. "He needed you to trust me. It wasn't hard. Any fool could see you were so starved for attention that all I needed was a few well placed compliments- 'Amazing, fantastic!'" He spoke in a high falsetto, mocking-"-and I had you. Shooting the cabbie just sealed the deal, because you thought I did it for you."

"What did you do it for, then?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"The cabbie was getting out of hand. Too cocky, too reckless. _He_ needed the cabbie out of the way, and I was right there to do the job."

"By 'he', you mean Moriarty." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. But the cabbie was just the first step, Sherlock. Then there was the test at the pool."

"Test?"

"Yes, a test you passed with flying colors. Making you think that I was Moriarty-that wasn't a mistake. We wanted to see how would you react, whether you would just see me as another criminal, or you would see it as betrayal. And making me a hostage-that was when we really knew we had you. From then on, you were putty in my hands."

Lestrade felt just as sick as Sherlock looked-hearing John refer to he and Moriarty as 'we'-as if they were somehow _friends_, made him nauseous.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "So what about the others?" He asked. "Why did you beat them? What did they have to do with me?"

"Don't be so vain, Sherlock, not everything is about you," John said snidely. "I beat those people because they deserved it, and because I wanted to. Living with you can make a man want to lose his mind; I had to vent my frustrations somewhere."

"And me? You talk about all the effort you put into getting me to trust you. Why did you beat _me_? Why did you reveal yourself?"

"It was time, Sherlock."

"Time for what?"

"It was time to burn you."

Sherlock suddenly looked as if he had aged ten years, his face looking gaunt in the bright lights.

"You did all that, just so Moriarty could burn me?" Sherlock asked, his voice rising. "What is he offering you? What in the world would he have to give you to make you do all that?"

John opened his mouth to answer, then his eyebrows furrowed, his cold expression going slack. "Sherlock?" He said, almost inaudible, looking perplexed. He looked around the room, seeming very confused to find himself there. "What's going on?"

Sherlock stood up suddenly, furious. "Answer my question!" Sherlock snarled, pointing a finger at John. "'What did he offer you?"

"What? Sherlock, I don't-" John began, sounding lost.

"Don't play games with me, John!" Sherlock yelled. "What did he offer you?"

John was shaking his head. "I don't know! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Stop it! Stop it _now_!" Sherlock shouted, a wild look in his eyes. "You know what I'm talking about!"

"Get him out of there. Now." Mycroft said quietly.

Lestrade was already heading for the door, needing no further persuasion.

He threw open the door, and went in, going straight for Sherlock, grabbing his arm. "Come on, Sherlock, you're done here. Let's go."

"No! Get _off_!" Sherlock said. He tried to pull away, but could not, he had put his still recovering body through too much that day. Lestrade pulled the struggling detective out of the room. Lestrade set Sherlock onto a chair near Mycroft, who was studying John, who still looked bewildered.

The detective's face was pale, and he was breathing heavily, gripping the seat of the chair tightly with his good hand. Lestrade had never seen Sherlock behave like this, it was rather unsettling and almost disturbing.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade began, touching his shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock hissed, batting the inspector's hand away.

"Okay," Lestrade said, stepping back.

Lestrade and Mycroft waited as Sherlock tried to get a hold of himself. A few minutes later, he finally spoke.

"I don't want your help," he said hoarsely. "I don't need your help. I want you to just let me be."

"Sherlock-"

"I mean it, Lestrade. And you!" He pointed to Mycroft. "Why don't you just spit it out?"

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked coolly.

"I'm not blind, Mycroft. You know something. Tell me what it is!" He said.

Mycroft looked uncomfortable for just a moment, but then he smiled blankly. "I don't think that would be wise in your present state," Mycroft replied. "Besides, I don't know anything for certain as of yet. I will let you know if it becomes relevant."

Sherlock scoffed but said nothing.

"We need to get you back to the hospital," Lestrade said. "We agreed we would have you back in-"

"Oh no, I am not going to the hospital," Sherlock said. "I'm going back to my flat, and neither of you are going to stop me." He stood up. "Don't bother me unless there is actually something of importance." He nodded once and walked out. Lestrade was surprised when he and Mycroft both did nothing but watch him go.

"I will keep an eye on him," Mycroft assured Lestrade.

"Thank you, I guess," Lestrade replied, and the elder Holmes left him standing alone by the two way glass.

**Author's Note: Hmmmm...what does Mycroft know? As always, please let me know what you think!**


	6. Not Fine

6. Not Fine

Sherlock staggered out onto the street and hailed a cab. He had been able to ignore the pain in his ribs for a good amount of time, but now it was becoming quite difficult to brush off, so difficult in fact, he was hardly able to gasp out his address to the taxi driver who had picked him up.

"You need a hospital, mate?" The driver asked.

"No, 'm fine. Just take me to...Baker Street." He leaned back on the seat, holding back the moan that was threatening to slip out. Now that he was noticing the pain in his ribs, his other injuries were becoming more prominent and altogether impossible to ignore, making the trip feel like an eternity. When he arrived, Sherlock threw a few random bills at the driver; he was in too much pain to care whether it was too little or too much. He practically fell out of the taxi, and stood bent double at his door for a minute before forcing himself to straighten up and go inside.

Walking up the stairs was miserable, each step made his ribs twinge, but he forced himself to keep going. Finally, he reached the flat, and stumbled onto the sofa. Laying down lessened the pain only by a small fraction, and he wondered briefly if paracetamol would help at all. He quickly dismissed the idea, the thought of having to stand up and go search for it was agonizing.

He lay there for a long time, allowing himself to think only about the physical pain, pushing away any thoughts of the earlier interrogation with John.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was waking up. He must have fallen asleep. Slowly, he sat up, and the pain felt tolerable again. He stood carefully, and went to find the paracetamol, discovering it in the bathroom. He took a few pills, then saw himself in the mirror. He did not quite recognize himself, for there was no way that haggard, skeleton-like man was _him_, staring back at him with empty eyes.

He left the bathroom, the image of his reflection filling his mind, and unconsciously, he began deducing things about himself.

_Three broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, broken nose, been in a fight, fight was personal...hasn't eaten, barely slept...emotional trauma as well, it seems..._

Sherlock tripped over something hard, and barely caught himself. He looked down, and saw it was John's doctor bag. He picked it up and opened it, dumping the bag's contents onto the floor. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he was determined to find it. He wanted to know if there had been evidence, what he had missed, what he had not seen. There had to be a clue somewhere. He found nothing of relevance in the doctor's bag, and he grunted angrily.

Sherlock set off in a feverish search for evidence, examining all of John's belongings, throwing them aside in frustration when they were no help. Before he knew it, he was climbing the stairs to John's room.

The search began innocently enough, picking up John's things and studying them, setting them aside.

But being in John's room, seeing his things, it triggered memories, emotions that he didn't want to feel, never, ever wanted to feel, and his search was quickly turning into a kind of ransacking.

_That was...that was amazing._

_Let him go, or I will kill you._

_Are you alright?_

_Pull that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, and we both go up._

_We can't giggle, it's a crime scene._

_There are lives at stake, Sherlock, actual human lives...just so I know, do you care about them at all?_

_Glad no one saw that._

_People want to know you're human._

He wasn't even looking for anything anymore, he was tearing apart John's room with no purpose now other than to just make it stop, to make the _feelings_ stop, throwing things about, smashing objects against the wall, not even aware that he was yelling and screaming, not aware of anything but destroying John's room and everything it represented. Anger was easier, it was _so _much easier...

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He barely noticed her, she was just a faintly annoying presence, hardly in the way. He kept going, and the memories became louder in his ears, the voices mixing so that he could barely even comprehend what they were saying anymore.

_I know you're there, Sherlock._

_You were always too busy thinking about how brilliant _you_ are.._

_You never saw me. _

_Underestimated me..._

_That was your first mistake..._

_Any fool could see you were starved for attention._

_Never even knew what I was capable of..._

''Shut up, shut up..."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson again, but her voice more shrill now, panicked, cutting into his violent trance.

Sherlock felt her hand on his arm, and suddenly he was back, breathing hard, seeing Mrs. Hudson standing in front of him.

"Sherlock," she said again, softly.

"What?" He snarled, though of course he knew. He knew how insane he must have looked, wreaking havoc on John's room and screaming things he didn't even remember now.

"What's wrong?" She asked timidly. "Did something happen with John?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Did something happen with John? I don't know, Mrs. Hudson, you tell me. Does rotting in a jail cell count?" Sherlock was ranting now. "What about the fact that John Watson is a _liar _and a criminal, what about that, Mrs. Hudson? What do you think about that? I think you could say, yes, something _did_ happen with John." He spat the last word, and he found he was shaking.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, her eyes bright with tears, shaking her head. "That can't be true. John isn't a criminal. You said he was-"

"At his sister's, yes I know. I lied, I admit it, alright? I lied. John was the one who did this, all of this." He said, gesturing to his injuries. "I didn't-I thought it might be kinder if I didn't tell you the truth.

But he's responsible for the beating of four people, and the attempted murder of one." Sherlock said. "John's gone, Mrs. Hudson. He won't be coming back."

Mrs. Hudson was quiet for a moment, then she spoke. "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Fine!" Sherlock said angrily, pulling away. "Fine. I'm fine."

Mrs. Hudson looked around at the destroyed room, and back at Sherlock. "No, you're not." She reached up and pulled Sherlock closer to her, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

Sherlock stiffened slightly, just for a moment, before wrapping his good arm around her. He buried his face in Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, a soft moan escaping his lips as he let her hold him, just as a mother would hold her child.

"Shhh," she whispered.

"I'm not fine," Sherlock mumbled. Once he said the words, he realized just how true they were, and he finally recognized that deep ache in his chest for what it was-loneliness.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." She said, her voice breaking. "But you'll be alright, you'll see."

"I won't," he murmured.

###

Mrs. Hudson made Sherlock lie down, and brought him some tea and a blanket. She knew that he did not like to be fussed over, so she let him alone after that, telling him to call for her if he needed anything.

Sherlock turned on the telly. He did not have the strength or the motivation to do anything else. The next few days blurred together, he hardly knew how much time had passed, all he knew was that familiar, lingering ache in his chest.

Beneath the ache, though, was the frustration and irritation that he was letting in all of these _emotions_. He was usually so perfect at separating himself from them.

Now he was wasting away in them, just as he always feared he would.

###

Sherlock spent the next week on his couch, alternating from watching the telly and sleeping. For the first time in his life, he was attempting to avoid constant thinking; because whenever he allowed himself to do so, his thoughts would always wander to John.

Mrs. Hudson would flit in and out at random times, bringing things for him to eat and trying to get him to do _something_.

It wasn't just that Sherlock had no motivation to do anything, he also _couldn't_ do anything. He had had a burst of strength at the interrogation, but that was over now. His dislocated shoulder prevented him from playing his violin or being able to properly execute experiments, his broken ribs (and his pride) keeping him from being able to pursue a case. Not that Lestrade would give him one anyways.

This was his life now, (at least for the weeks of recovery) and Sherlock hated it. It was better than being in the hospital, certainly. He didn't have to deal with the irritating hospital staff or the constant invasions of his personal space, but that wasn't very much comfort now.

He was completely and utterly alone.

###

"Sherlock?"

"Go away, Mrs. Hudson."

"Your brother is here, Sherlock."

Sherlock lifted his head, a facetious smile on his face. "Well, then tell my _brother_ to go away."

"As always, thank you for the warm welcome," Mycroft said, stepping into the room.

"My pleasure," Sherlock replied. "I believe I made it perfectly clear that I wanted you not to bother me."

"Unless there was something of importance," Mycroft said. "And there is. Get dressed, you're coming with me."

"I don't think I will," Sherlock said flippantly, huddling back into his blanket.

"Trust me, you want to come."

"I doubt it."

"I know you do. It's obvious you're bored."

Despite everything, Sherlock knew his brother was right. He _was_ bored.

"Fine." Sherlock sat up. "But only because I have nothing better to do."

"Of course," Mycroft said. "I would hate to waste your valuable time."

Sherlock slowly stood, hiding his wince of pain from his brother. "I will meet you downstairs shortly," he said, waving Mycroft away.

Mycroft nodded. "Don't take too long, brother."

Sherlock ignored him, walking into his room.

###

"Why are we going to the hospital? I told you, I wasn't going back." Sherlock said as they pulled up to the hospital.

"This isn't some elaborate scheme to put you back in the hospital, Sherlock. All will become clear."

They exited the car and walked into the hospital, Mycroft walking at a brisk pace, and Sherlock lagging slightly behind. They stepped into the elevator, and Mycroft pushed the button for the third floor.

"Sherlock, I have told you this before, and I will not hesitate to do so now." Mycroft said, as the elevator crawled upwards. "Caring is not an advantage. You see that now, don't you?"

_Yes_, was the automatic answer in Sherlock's mind. But he would not admit that to Mycroft, or to anyone, for that matter.

The elevator creaked to a stop, and the doors slid open.

"Keep that in mind."

Mycroft set off down the hallway, and they walked in silence until he stopped at a dark door in the middle of the hallway. "Here we are."

Sherlock scoffed. "Did you bring me here to interview one of his victims? I have no interest in-"

Mycroft chuckled drily and shook his head. "Just open the door, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, puzzled. "What-"

"Just do it."

Sherlock hesitated, then pushed open the door. The room was dark, but Sherlock could make out the silhouette of a figure lying on the bed inside. He stepped inside warily, and switched on the light.

John Watson was lying there, attached to all sorts of tubes and wires. He was pale and unconscious. Despite everything, Sherlock's heart still dropped like a stone at the sight.

Sherlock swore. "What happened? He was _fine _three days ago!" He shouted at Mycroft.

"John had a seizure two days after the interrogation, and has been here since," Mycroft replied calmly.

"Why wasn't I told earlier?" Sherlock demanded. "This would be something of importance to bother me about, Mycroft! What's wrong with him?"

"Think, Sherlock," His brother instructed. "You saw John, surely you noticed something amiss."

"He was sweating," Sherlock said automatically. "Tremors, restlessness. Signs of withdrawal..." Sherlock looked at John, realization dawning on him.

"Drug addict." Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft, did you drag me out of my flat to tell me that along with liar, criminal, that I can also add junkie to the list of Dr. Watson's crimes? Oh, good show, brother, I feel _so _much better." He said sarcastically.

"Now just wait a moment," Mycroft said. "You and I both see that these are the signs of drug use. But the hospital ran a drug test, and found no traces of any drug in Dr. Watson's system. Now why would he be experiencing what are clearly severe withdrawal symptoms but have no trace of drugs in his body?"

Mycroft stepped forward, standing directly behind Sherlock. "Because, if I am correct, John is on a drug that was meant to be untraceable by normal drug tests, but it is also supposed to no longer exist."

Sherlock looked back at him apprehensively.

"I brought you here, Sherlock, because I have reason to believe that there is more to this story than we originally thought."


	7. Need to Be Prepared

7. Need to Be Prepared

"A drug," Sherlock said blankly. "What do you mean?"

"An experimental drug, #1A38Y2." Mycroft said. "It was designed solely to remediate criminals and help them reenter society as average, _safe_ citizens. It would remove key criminal details from their life, and replacing them with new ones. There's no way to completely erase a life, but it is possible to create an illusion of doing so."

"How?"

"It was simple enough. The subject is injected with the drug, and you can shape and change details of their life with just your words. It's more like covering up certain things rather than changing them, hiding away the undesirables and bringing in newer and better ones."

The doses are administered once a week over a course of 30 days. After each dose, you speak to the subject, and tell them precisely what you want them to think. It begins working its way in just after the first dose, but there are often episodes of confusion and irritability as the subject's mind battles between reality and the fictional state the drug produces. It's not until the second dose that the drug truly begins to take effect, and by the third dose the fictional state is all they know, though their original memories are not lost, just hidden."

"What went wrong?" Sherlock asked coolly. He sank into the chair besides John's bed, appearing nonchalant.

Mycroft was not looking at Sherlock, but at John. "As testing progressed, we discovered certain words or phrases that related in some way to their previous lives could trigger momentary relapses, and vice versa, other words could also take them back to their drugged state of mind. Not only that, but each subject developed abnormal, uncontrollable violent tendencies. The slightest annoyance could become murderous rage at a moment's notice. We nearly lost several of our employees to these episodes."

We found it prudent to remove the drug immediately. Unfortunately, the withdrawal symptoms, much like the ones John is experiencing now, along with being even more susceptible to relapses, killed nearly every subject. We made it top priority to destroy every last drop, the effects of 1A38Y2 were too dangerous to let continue any longer."

"Some of it went missing." Sherlock stated flatly.

"Yes. Once the destruction of the drug was catalogued and filed into our records, we discovered later that the amount disposed of and the amount that had been originally created were unequal. We looked into it, but the only connection we found were two lab workers, Tobias Gray and Dominic Wood, who had terminated their employment one week after the drug was officially destroyed."

"And? Why didn't you do something about them?"

"We questioned them, but there was little to no evidence that they had taken anything, and we were forced to release them, despite our suspicions. We kept an eye on them for a short time, but eventually it was deemed pointless, there was no sign of any criminal activity."

"How much exactly was missing?" Sherlock inquired after a moment.

Mycroft looked slightly uncomfortable. "Enough to properly dose one person."

"Enough to dose one person! How could you have been so idiotic, Mycroft, it was all right in front of you and you _missed_ it!" Sherlock said angrily. "You could have avoided this, _all_ of this!" He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. If Mycroft had just seen...they wouldn't be sitting here now in a hospital by John's bedside. There was hardly any room for doubt anymore, all the pieces had fit...the brief episodes of confusion, the irritability, the sudden desire for violence. But Sherlock wasn't one to let there be any doubt, he had to know for certain. Mycroft did not speak, he was watching him put it all together, almost as if he was waiting for him to do so.

Sherlock's fist clenched onto the seat of his chair. "How can we know for sure John is on 1A38Y2?"

"The symptoms and John's uncharacteristic violent acts are certainly some proof...but you are correct, there are other ways to know for sure."

Sherlock looked back at his brother calmly, though on the inside, he was going through a thousand thoughts at once, with an unbidden, unfamiliar feeling rising up in his chest-hope. "And what is that?"

"1A38Y2 was meant to be untraceable because if put to use, the remediated criminals would need certain amount of dosages for a time, in order for the body to adjust to and accept the effects of the drug as normal, and the subject appearing to be on drugs in any way would not help them progress back into society. If John has 1A38Y2 in his system, and if he is truly withdrawing from it as we speak, there will be episodes of normality, relapses like I mentioned earlier, if the John Watson you know truly does exist. Not just episodes of confusion, like the one you witnessed at his interrogation, but of clarity. He will know who he is."

"And at other times he will be the drugged version of himself," Sherlock said.

"Yes. As the drug continues to leave his system, he will bounce back and forth from his normal state to his drugged state rather violently and unpredictably. Seeing as he was arrested likely before he could receive another dose, and being taken off the drug so suddenly, it will most likely make the withdrawals all the more severe." He paused. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, though already knowing what his brother was going to say.

"You need to be prepared for the fact that this will almost certainly kill him."

Sherlock closed his eyes for just a moment, taking a deep breath. His brother's words had stung so much more than he cared to admit. This was why Mycroft had warned him yet again that caring was not an advantage-he had been trying to tell Sherlock to prepare for gaining back and losing his friend all at the same time.

Mycroft shouldn't have bothered, though, because _nothing_ would have prepared Sherlock to find out that John was going to leave him for a second time.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

"Fine." Sherlock snapped, arranging his features into a scowl, but he knew this didn't fool his brother.

Mycroft just sighed. "Sherlock, I can see that-"

"I'm fine."

"-that this upsets you. And why should it not? You have lived with the man for nearly two years."

"I said, I'm _fine_, Mycroft. John Watson...John Watson is not..."

Mycroft exhaled slowly. "Sherlock, I merely warned you that caring was not an advantage because I hope that next time you will remember. You cannot do anything about it now, however, but hopefully you will learn from it and not make the same mistake again."

"Who says there is going to be a next time?" Sherlock said stiffly.

"No one. Not yet, at least." Mycroft replied. "Goodbye for now, Sherlock," he said, turning away. "I will see you again soon, I presume?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Mycroft left, the door shutting with a slam.

Sherlock turned back to look at John, who was silent and still.

_John..._

He took another deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, settle the awful feeling in his chest.

"I won't let you die," he promised John. "I _won't_ let you die."

Mycroft may have written John off as dead, but Sherlock would not, and could not do the same.

###

_'I'll stop you._

_We need to talk._

_That's the man who came to our flat._

_Did you bring me here to talk, or did you just bring me here to bully me?_

The voices and the memories would not stop, screaming and swirling endlessly in his head, trying to fight the darkness. They were confusing but strangely familiar, he couldn't imagine why they would be, he didn't hurt all those people...did he? One person's screams stood out from the rest-Sherlock's. He would never hurt Sherlock, so why these memories of his best friend lying on the ground, bloody and defenseless, looking up at him, begging him to stop-

He heard himself gasp sharply, and the darkness began to disappear, his eyes opening slowly. The light was bright, welcome, but at first painful. He blinked, once, twice, and gradually his eyes adjusted.

"John?" A voice asked from his right, sounding apprehensive, almost timid. "Is that _you_?"

"Sherlock?" John croaked, looking over at his friend, who was sitting beside the bed. John was surprised to see him looking worried, unsure. "Of course it's me. Who else would it be?"

Sherlock made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob, looking as if a weight had just been lifted off his shoulders. "John," he said simply, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Sherlock, what happened?" He asked.

The detective just shook his head, still staring at John as though he was seeing a ghost. "No matter," he said curtly. He reached over, squeezed John's hand once, as if reassuring himself that John was truly there.

"You look _terrible_," John commented. "When was the last time you even slept?"

Sherlock laughed, but it came out more like a cough. "I don't know."

"You should try it sometime." John smiled weakly. "Are you alright?"

"Me?" Sherlock scoffed, his 'you're so dim compared to my genius' tone returning to his voice. "I'm fine. It's _you_ you should be worried about."

"Tell me what happened," John said again. Why did Sherlock look so hesitant? He didn't like seeing Sherlock look so uncertain, it was unsettling.

"You've been drugged, John," Sherlock said quietly. "Do you remember anything at all?"

"Yes," John said after a minute. "They're odd, though, I don't understand them..."

_Stop it! Stop it _now_!_

_It would be easier on both of us if you would cooperate, Dr. Watson._

_What did he offer you?_

_You did all that just so Moriarty could burn me?_

"John?" Sherlock's voice brought him back to reality.

"Sorry, what?"

"I need you to tell me if these names mean anything to you. Tobias Gray and Dominic Wood?"

_If you will come with me, Dr. Watson..._

_Don't bother struggling..._

_Hold still, and this won't hurt._

Two different faces flashed briefly through his mind, disappearing as soon as they came. John looked at Sherlock, and was about to speak when suddenly he did not recognize that man sitting beside his bed.

His mind worked furiously, sifting through his memories, then finally...

He looked again. "You..."

That was the man Moriarty hired him to burn.

"You!" He sat up quickly. "What are you doing here? Back for more?"

"John-?"

"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you? Didn't you have enough at the interrogation?"

"You know who they are, don't you?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's question.

"What are you on about?" John demanded to know.

Sherlock stood up suddenly. "Get some rest, John." He swept out of the room without another word.

John wanted to protest, but his strength was spent. He sunk back into his pillows and into unconsciousness, the memories swallowing him once more.

**Author's Note: Just so you all know, this drug is completely and perfectly fictional, as far as I know, anyways.**

**On a separate note, I would like to thank all of you lovely people who have taken the time to read and/or review the story so far. You inspire me to write and work even harder, thank you for that, I appreciate it so much! Please keep reading, reviewing, and following! :)**

**Annnndd..sorry, I'll let you go in a moment...but I would just love it if you would check out my newest story, called 'Don't Be Dead'. Thank you! **


	8. Very Loyal Very Quickly

8. Very Loyal Very Quickly

Sherlock headed straight home, allowing his mind to now work through this new information. John had been drugged, and it was almost positive that both Tobias Gray and Dominic Wood were involved, just mentioning the names to John had caused a relapse. If he could find their location...they were lab workers, had helped create the drug, there _had_ to be something that could save John.

He had to do whatever it took to keep his promise to John. He would not let his friend die without having done everything in his power to prevent it.

If John had been there, he would have made Sherlock stay home, insist that he was fine, and and tell Sherlock to take care of himself-and he would probably ask how in the devil he was going to chase down two criminals with three broken ribs. He chuckled to himself, he could imagine John doing exactly that, the man always had an inane need to always put others before himself, even to the point of risking his own life.

But John was not here, and even if he was, Sherlock would have ignored him and gone on anyways. He didn't know precisely _how_ he was going to catch Gray and Wood, he just knew that he _had_ to.

Once back at the flat, he began researching right away, looking through government records he had to hack through with Mycroft's ID. There was very little to be found on Gray and Wood, except for their employment at the lab where 1A38Y2 was developed. Their records were clean-too clean, especially for two men who had been so carefully watched by the government for a time.

Wait.

Tobias Gray...he had heard that name before. He researched further, found several articles about Gray in private science magazines that were never released to the public, but instead hidden away in government records.

'Dr. Tobias Gray announces development of groundbreaking new drug...'

'If successful, there will be no more need for jails, prisons, or safehouses...the world's criminals will get a new chance at life...the world itself will be a better place...'

'Dr. Tobias Gray, leading scientist of project #1A38Y2, pictured here with Dominic Wood, one of the employees in development and testing...'

Ah, so that was why his name was familiar, Dr. Gray wasn't just any lab worker, but the leading man. Strange that Mycroft didn't see fit to mention that. Sherlock snorted. His people had not only let in two men working for Moriarty, but made one of them in charge of the entire project.

'Dr. Tobias Gray goes missing.' The article was small, but this one had gone public, and was dated to three and a half weeks ago.

He got up, walking over to the mantelpiece, snatching up his skull. "Three and a half weeks ago...John showed symptoms of 1A38Y2 around that time," Sherlock said to the skull. "It seems there is more to Tobias Gray than meets the eye."

The skull stayed silent, staring back at Sherlock with its empty sockets.

"You know, you really are a poor substitute," Sherlock said. "I think I much prefer John." He felt a sharp twinge at this pronouncement; he shook his head, and forced himself to focus, and began to pace. "Speaking of which, I need to talk with him. If he can tell me anything about Tobias Gray-agh!" He was interrupted by a shooting pain in his ribs, as if reminding him again that he was in no condition to be chasing criminals or even trying to Work. He doubled over, clutching his side. He took a deep breath, and straightened up. "I'm fine." He told the skull. "Just needed to catch my breath, is all."

The skull looked back blankly, but Sherlock could just imagine John's reaction.

_You great idiot, you're still recovering, there's no way you'll be able to help anyone like this. Let someone else handle it for once._

"No." Sherlock said aloud.

No, it was going to be him or no one, he was going to make sure that John lived to keep reminding Sherlock of his idiocy, no one else would do it better, and he wanted no one else beside John Watson to be his flatmate, his friend, and he didn't care if that meant putting himself through more than his transport could handle.

And he wasn't going to let anything stand in his way.

The next morning, he was on his way back to the hospital. He could still hardly believe the events of the past few weeks-the sooner he could get things back to normal, or at least as close to normal as they could be, the better.

Sherlock Holmes was not often nervous-being nervous was an extremely rare occurrence for him, so rare that the feeling was almost foreign, so much so that he could count the times he had been anxious on one hand (if there were more, he had certainly deleted them). He never felt the need to be nervous about anything-he only knew going and doing, there was no time or reason to let anything like anxiety get in his way.

Today was an exception, and naturally, it was all John's fault.

John was conscious when Sherlock entered the room, but his health had certainly declined since last time. He was nearly as white as his bedsheets, and he looked completely exhausted.

"Hello," he said weakly, and Sherlock relaxed somewhat. John was himself, good, that would make this much easier.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, taking the chair by John's bed.

"Sherlock, no one will tell me how I got here," John said. "I keep asking but they won't answer me. And I have all these strange memories that I don't understand..."

Sherlock bit his lip. He wished John could remain blissfully ignorant, but no, he deserved to know the truth.

"John, you remember I told you that you were drugged?" Sherlock began, hoping this conversation wouldn't trigger a relapse.

"Yes."

"You're here because you started going through severe withdrawals from it," Sherlock said. "What do you remember?"

"I remember...screaming. Beating people on the ground." His voice trembled slightly, and he shook his head. "But I don't understand, _I_ didn't do that...did I?" John looked at Sherlock pleadingly, begging him to say that it wasn't true, that he didn't do what he thought he did. Sherlock wanted so much to lie, tell him no, of course not, but lying would only make things worse and more confusing for John.

"Yes." Sherlock said softly, looking his friend in the eye.

"What?" John's face, already pale, turned a shade whiter. "No, I didn't. I wouldn't. I wouldn't do that, Sherlock, you _know_ I wouldn't! Sherlock, please..." He said desperately. "Please...say I didn't..."

Sherlock could barely respond, his throat tight. "I'm sorry," he said thickly.

John was shaking his head. "No, I couldn't have, because that would mean-" he looked over at Sherlock, eyes passing over his injuries. His eyes widened in horror as realization set in. "Oh..." He covered his face with his hands. "Sherlock...I didn't...I didn't mean to...please believe me-"

"John, it's alright, it's okay. I'm fine." Sherlock said hurriedly. "I don't blame you, it wasn't your fault."

John's eyes darkened for a moment, then cleared again. He blinked several times.

There was a long, solemn pause. Sherlock wanted to say something, but this was something that he had never had to do before, and now, he had absolutely no idea what to do. John finally broke the silence.

"Sherlock. I'm dying, aren't I?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes." He almost choked on that one word, ducking his head to hide his expression from John. There was no need to add his pain to John's, his friend was suffering enough.

John let out a shuddering breath. "I thought so. Doctors have a way of acting around patients they know are a lost cause...they think you can't tell, but you can." He said weakly, looking up at the ceiling.

The two were silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. He winced, the words sounded so empty and meaningless, but he didn't know what else he could say to properly convey what he was feeling.

_I'm so sorry, John..._

"What are you sorry for?" John snapped, suddenly angry. "You didn't hurt anyone."

"You didn't mean to," Sherlock replied softly. "I know you didn't."

John's expression softened. "You're very loyal very quickly," he said, and laughed weakly, as if sharing a private joke with himself.

"Always," Sherlock said seriously.

John closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. "You shouldn't be."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to," Sherlock said. "Honestly, John, since when have I listened to anything you tell me to do?" He grabbed John's hand, squeezing it once briefly before pulling his hand away.

John smiled faintly, but then started to cough, his body shaking violently. When they subsided, he looked at Sherlock. "What are you here for, Sherlock?"

"Here to see you, obviously," Sherlock replied, puzzled.

"Yes, I know, but you didn't come here to cry at my deathbed. You walked in here with that expression you always have when you want to interrogate someone. So, what is it?"

Sherlock flinched at the word 'deathbed', he hated that John was talking about it so casually. But he was right.

"I need to ask you a few questions," Sherlock admitted. "About Dr. Tobias Gray." He watched John carefully, waiting to see if there would be a relapse, but surprisingly there was none. "You know who I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Yes," John answered. "Yes, I think I remember. He was there when I was...taken. We were in a dark room, just him and me...he would inject me every time..." John's face clouded over, and he shook his head. "I could tell his legs were bound with something...he kind of shuffled when he walked."

Interesting, was Dr. Gray a hostage instead of an accomplice? Sherlock leaned forward. "Did he ever say anything to you?"

John thought about that for a moment. "He always said...always told me to hold still, he didn't want to hurt me...doing what he was told-" He cut off suddenly, blinking furiously. He was relapsing. Sherlock wasn't surprised, the thing he was surprised about was that John had lasted this long into the conversation.

He straightened up, looking Sherlock in the eye, his expression cold. "You're here again. Why are you here?"

"Needed information," Sherlock replied coolly, though he hated speaking to this John. "You weren't entirely informative at the interrogation."

"I wasn't? Really, Sherlock, I told you everything at that interrogation. You seemed satisfied with my information at the time." John said, his tone taunting.

"Well, now I'm not," Sherlock said. "I want you to tell me what you know about Dr. Tobias Gray."

"Even if I did know who that man was, Sherlock, why would I tell you?"

"Because you want to tell me, that's why. You find it entertaining."

A corner of John's mouth turned upwards. "I suppose you're right about that. Fine, I do know who Dr. Gray is. He's the leading scientist of drug development and testing for the government, and he became quite useful for his cause. Let's just say he was immediately employed to our services."

"Where is Dr. Gray now?"

"Probably hidden away in some so called secret safehouse. He disappeared a few weeks ago."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful," Sherlock said tersely, standing up.

"Where are you going?"

"To speak with Dr. Gray of course. But I will be back."

Sherlock walked out. On his way out of the hospital, he found John's doctor and asked him to make sure he called Sherlock immediately if John got any worse. He let him know in no uncertain terms he would be _very_ unhappy if the doctor failed to do so.

Sherlock left the doctor stammering and muttering as he walked away.

Dr. Gray wasn't entirely hard to find, a few calls here and there and Sherlock had his location. Of course, he wasn't surprised by the inferiority and simpleness of it, he knew that average people believed that if you hide a man away and lock the door he's somehow impossible to find, but really, he knew all it took was the proper touch.

Dr. Gray's home was a small, cheap flat all the way on the other side of London. It took Sherlock a good hour and a half to get there because of traffic. By the time he got to Dr. Gray's door, he was quite tired and disgruntled from the trip, the cabbie had been irritatingly chatty and overly friendly.

He knocked twice loudly on the door, and waited. It opened just a crack a minute later.

"Who are you?" A rough voice asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answered. "I'm here to talk to you about John Watson."

There was silence for a few moments, then quiet muttering.

"You know about 1A38Y2?" The voice asked.

"Yes."

The door opened, revealing a middle aged man with pepper colored hair and a thin mustache, wearing a blue dressing gown. "Come in," he said impatiently, beckoning him forward.

Sherlock stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. Dr. Gray slipped by him and locked the door. He turned back to Sherlock and gestured to the tiny living room. "Shall we sit?"

"Certainly." Sherlock took a seat on one of the two small, dingy armchairs, and Dr. Gray sat across from him in the other.

"It was supposed to make the world a better place," Dr. Gray began after a brief silence. "We wouldn't have to fear the world, fear for the safety of our loved ones, fear for our own lives...we could have all lived together in peace. Instead I have the deaths of twenty people on my hands. I should have known that playing with human minds would be dangerous, but I was too caught up in the idea."

"I understand the appeal," Sherlock replied. "But wouldn't the world be a dull place if there was not bad to counteract the good?"

Dr. Gray laughed drily and shook his head. "Perhaps you're right. Now you said you had questions?"

"Yes. Tell me about Dominic Wood."

"He was just a lab worker," Dr. Gray said. "At least, that's all I thought he was at first. But then when we began testing the drug, he started bringing me messages, said they were from his 'employer'. They were always written on a piece of notebook paper, threats against my family. They said when testing was over, to steal a good amount of the dosage, or else they would murder my family." He swallowed hard, and continued. "I was forced to help Dominic Wood steal the 1A38Y2 once the testing failed. I tried to tell Wood that using the drug was pointless, there were too many risks involved, but he said his employer still wanted it. I'm not proud of my actions, but at least my family is safe, that's what's most important."

"What happened after you stole the drug for the employer?"

"Wood and I were told to resign. Wood was only too happy to go, but I resisted." Dr. Gray ran a hand through his hair. "I was being forced to leave my life's work, I wasn't going to leave without a fight. That was when he started calling me."

"Wood's employer?"

"Yes. He said his name was Moriarty, and he needed more of my help. He had taken my sister and said he would be happy to release her as long as I did everything I was told. Of course I obeyed."

"What did he have you do?"

"I was told that I was to help administer what was left of the 1A38Y2 to a man called John Watson. I agreed, and he let my sister go and took me instead."

"Why you? There wasn't anyone else that could do the job?"

"It was my project, Mr. Holmes. I disallowed anyone but myself to administer the drug." Dr. Gray responded. "It was a delicate process that I trusted no one but myself with."

Sherlock could certainly understand that. He waved a hand to signal the doctor to go on.

"Once a week for about three weeks, I would be taken to a dark room, and Dominic Wood would bring in John Watson. I, of course, knew exactly who he was, I had read his blog before-"

"You read his blog?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Of course," Dr. Gray said. "It's quite fascinating, actually, I followed your cases for quite some time. I especially liked that one, study in pink, I think it was called-"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Moving on."

"Right...sorry. Anyways, Watson would be strapped down and I would inject the drug. I would have an earpiece in my ear that he would speak to me with, and I would repeat everything that he was saying-are you alright?"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You've gone all pale, are you okay?"

Sherlock looked down and realized he was clenching tightly into the chair, knuckles white. How could have all of this been happening right under his nose? How could have he let all this go on? It had been stupid to blame Mycroft, when in reality if Sherlock himself had just seen, he could have prevented it, could have saved John...the image of John lying in his hospital bed flashed through his mind. He brushed it away, he couldn't let feelings get in the way right now.

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Go on."

The doctor looked skeptical, but he continued. "I repeated what I was told." He cocked his head, remembering something. "He mentioned you, you know. When the subject gets injected for the first time...it's not pretty. The body tries to reject the drug, the mind tries to hold on to reality-and I never saw anyone else fight so hard to hold on. I had to use even more dosages than normal. He has a strong mind, Watson does. I was very impressed by that."

"What did he say about me?"

"Mostly your name," Dr. Gray replied. "And he kept telling me not to touch you, do whatever I wanted to him, but to leave you alone. I think he understood exactly what was going on and what he had to do to protect you. You're a lucky man, Mr. Holmes, to have a friend who is so willing to lay down his life for you at a moment's notice. Not many people get to have that."

Sherlock was overcome with a swell of gratitude and pain all at once-gratitude for his best friend, and pain because his best friend was dying because Sherlock's archenemy had wanted to burn him.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, avoiding Dr. Gray's eyes. He couldn't believe how quickly he was coming undone, and it was all thanks to John Watson.

Dr. Gray went on. "When the time came for one of the final doses, I was told that John Watson would not be coming back, and I was free to go. I went to the police, and I was sent here."

"And you haven't been contacted by Moriarty since?"

"No."

"I must say, Dr. Gray, for a man who is trying to hide, you were unusually easy to find."

"Mr. Holmes, I did this only because the police made me. If Jim Moriarty wants to find me, he'll find me wherever I go, whether it be here or the other side of the world."

There was another silence, and then Sherlock spoke again.

"Dr. Gray, you mentioned earlier that twenty people were killed because of 1A38Y2. How many survived?"

Dr. Gray sighed. "Only three. I tried developing a sort of cure for the drug-I gave it to each subject that survived long enough to receive it."

Those were not good chances, not good at all, but it was John's only chance.

"Is there any left?"

"Yes. When I was instructed to steal the 1A38Y2, I produced another batch of the cure, for the poor sap that would be receiving what was left of the drug. I assume Dr. Watson will be needing some?"

"As soon as possible." Sherlock absolutely despised the fact that he had to trust somebody else with John's life, but there just wasn't enough time for him to attempt anything else.

"I'll send it to you tonight. I'd rather not reveal the location, you understand of course."

Usually, Sherlock would have argued, or even would have deduced the location from the doctor's actions, but today he just felt so_ tired_.

"Fine, that will do. Thank you for your time, Doctor." He stood up, and Dr. Gray did the same. They shook hands, and Sherlock turned for the door.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Yes?" Sherlock turned back.

"If you want to find Dominic Wood, he's easier to find than you might think. Chances are, he might just find you."

Sherlock studied Dr. Gray carefully, but the doctor's face was impassive and emotionless. "Thank you." He nodded once, and was about to turn for the door once more when Dr. Gray stopped him again.

"Wait. Tell me, how many people did John Watson kill?" The doctor asked, his expression a combination of both concern and guilt.

"None." Sherlock replied.

Dr. Gray raised an eyebrow. "None? Now that is interesting."

"How so?"

"No other subject was able to control themselves when they went into violent rages, the only thing that stopped them from murdering anyone in sight were _extreme _security measures," said Dr. Gray. "The fact that John Watson was able to control himself is actually quite amazing, quite amazing indeed. " He shook his head. "I truly do hope he lives, Mr. Holmes, we need more men like John Watson in the world."

"Yes, yes we do," Sherlock agreed, smiling slightly. "Goodbye, Dr. Gray."

Dr. Gray nodded to him once, and Sherlock left.

Sherlock was nearly home when he received the call.

"Is this Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Richards, we, er, spoke earlier about John Watson."

"What happened, is he alright?" Sherlock asked, filling with dread.

"I think you should come and see for yourself, and please, do come quickly."


	9. As Long As You Need Me

9. As Long As You Need Me

"Change of plans!" Sherlock yelled at the cabbie. "Take me to St. Barts!"

"That will be twenty-"

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air. "I don't _care_, just get me there and fast!"

The cabbie thankfully obeyed, and they took off, speeding rather dangerously toward the hospital. They arrived in a record time, and Sherlock hastily paid the cabbie and set off.

He didn't even bother checking in with the receptionist, he went straight to the elevator and took it up to John's floor, making a beeline for his room.

As Sherlock approached the door, he could hear screaming and crashing noises from inside, and the frantic voices of the nurses.

He broke into a run, and grabbed the doorknob, shaking it violently when the door did not open. He looked into the window, seeing John fighting a group of nurses (Dr. Richards and John's other doctors strangely absent), screaming and yelling, his fists swinging. They were unsuccessfully attempting to hold him down, their efforts no match for his strength.

Sherlock pounded on the door furiously, but of course the nurses paid him no mind. He reared back and kicked the door open.

"_Move_!" He commanded the nurses. Surprisingly, they obeyed, backing away from the bed.

Sherlock marched to the bed, seizing John by the shoulder, pushing him down. He didn't seem to even know that Sherlock was there, eyes wild but empty. "John Watson, you will stop this and you will do it now," Sherlock ordered.

John's eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's, and for a moment, there was a glimpse of clarity, almost as if he was coming back to his senses. Then it was gone, and John was thrashing again, throwing Sherlock aside as easily as a rag doll.

Sherlock stumbled backwards, but caught himself.

"Stay away!" John roared when Sherlock tried to come forward again.

Sherlock ignored this and kept going, which severely agitated John, who was writhing as though he was in pain. Sherlock grabbed John by the wrist, restraining his arms and speaking as composedly as he could to the man, attempting to calm his friend. This did little, only making John more determined to escape. He snarled, and swung, and his fist connected with Sherlock's throat. The detective gagged as the burning pain from John's blow tore down his neck, and he fell backwards.

Sherlock crashed unceremoniously onto the hard tile, his whole body screaming loudly in protest when he collided with the floor. Suddenly he was overcome with a fit of painful coughs. He forced himself to sit up, while the nurses finally came forward to try to intervene again. John resisted them, shouting and pushing them away.

"John-" Sherlock said hoarsely. That one word began another fit, but he forced himself to speak again.

"John-_stop_-"

John unexpectedly froze, his eyes moving down to look at Sherlock, and his expression changed to one of surprise and shame. He blinked several times, and Sherlock was shocked to see he was actually blinking away _tears_.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, voice ragged.

One nurse pushed him back down into his pillows, and another covered him with his blanket. A third nurse set about strapping John down. All the while, John kept his eyes on Sherlock-looking sad and the same time desperate-desperate to have everything be okay again, to have Sherlock know he was sorry, to have never hurt him in the first place.

They finished and hovered awkwardly by John's bed, as if not sure what to do. They finally decided on trying to help Sherlock, but he responded with a simple "get out".

As the door slammed shut behind the nurses, Sherlock looked back at John.

"Sherlock-"

"Don't say it." Sherlock interrupted. "Not again."

"What?" John asked, baffled.

"Don't apologize again," Sherlock clarified, voice firm. "I already know you are sorry, and I know you never intended to hurt me."

"But, Sherlock-"

"No, enough! Honestly, John, this sorry lark is getting rather tedious, and it needs to stop. I am _sick_ and I am_ tired _of you blaming yourself for something _I_ don't even blame you for!"

John was dumbstruck, his mouth falling slightly open, his eyes wide. Sherlock nodded once, and made a satisfied sound, glad his message finally got through his friend's thick skull.

John shook his head, then unexpectedly, he cracked a smile, the first genuine one Sherlock had seen in weeks. He chuckled to himself.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"It's just good to have you back," John replied.

Neither of them missed the unspoken meaning of John's words- _"It's good to have _us_ back."_

There was a brief silence, and then Sherlock cleared his throat. "Let's get these off, then," he said, gesturing to the straps that were holding John in his bed. He began undoing them, ignoring John's protests. "No need for you to be strapped down like a rabid dog."

"Those are there for a reason, Sherlock," John said, his voice strained. "I'm still dangerous."

Sherlock scoffed. "No, you're not. Besides, if you relapse again, I'll be here."  
John sighed in response, and it almost sounded as if though he was relieved. He allowed Sherlock to remove the rest of the straps.

Sherlock was about to speak when his phone went off.

_I spoke with Dr. Gray. Sending someone to administer the antidote._ _He is a colleague of Dr. Gray's, do try to be civil, won't you?  
-MH_

Only minutes later, the door opened, a tall, balding man carrying a briefcase stepped into the room. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, I presume?" Before they could answer, the man opened his briefcase, pulling out a small box. "My name is Dr. Manders. Mycroft Holmes sends his regards, as always."

"What is he doing here, Sherlock?" John asked.

"I spoke with the man who created the drug," Sherlock answered, avoiding Dr. Gray's name on purpose, "and he offered me something that should help. I suppose he didn't think _I_ could properly administer it to you."

"He's probably right," John replied, eyeing the long syringe Dr. Manders took from the box.

Dr. Manders walked to the other side of John's bed. "Pull up your sleeve, Dr. Watson." John obeyed, and Dr. Manders prepared the army doctor's shoulder for injection.

"And this is going to help?" John asked.

"It might," Dr. Manders said before Sherlock could respond.

"That's something, at least," John muttered.

"I just have to warn you, this is going to hurt," Dr. Manders said. "A burning sensation, but it should be over very quickly."

John didn't make a sound when Dr. Manders injected the syringe, only closed his eyes and waited.

The entire procedure lasted about a minute and a half, but it felt much longer. The signs weren't obvious, at least they were not to anyone other besides Sherlock, but the detective could see that even though John was putting on a brave face as usual, he was in a fair amount of pain.

Dr. Manders pulled out the syringe, and replaced it in its box, which quickly went back in the briefcase.

"Dr. Manders, may I have a word?" Sherlock asked as the doctor made to leave.

"Certainly," Dr. Manders replied. Sherlock gestured toward the door with a tip of his head, and the doctor nodded.

They exited the room, and Sherlock shut the door behind them.

"Will this help in any way?" Sherlock asked.

"It will reduce his suffering slightly," Dr. Manders replied. "Unfortunately, that is the only thing this antidote can really guarantee. It may cure him, it may not. It is quite impossible to tell whether it will."

"So there is absolutely no way to know?" Sherlock asked, heart beginning to pound.

"I'm afraid the only thing you will be certain of is if he was about to die."

Sherlock exhaled slowly. He had suspected this, of course, but having it confirmed was, to say the least, upsetting.

"I am sorry," Dr. Manders said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Do not apologize for something that has not happened," He said. "John Watson is not going to die, not when I have something to say about it. I made a promise to him that I have _every_ intention of keeping." Sherlock knew he was being irrational, knew he was ignoring all the facts that were practically screaming in his face, but for once he did not care.

"Goodbye, Doctor." He opened the door and went back inside without another word.

###

Dr. Gray was watching the telly when the doorbell rang.

His heart skipped a beat just like any other time the doorbell rang. Usually it was the super or some kid going door to door fundraising, but Dr. Gray knew this time was different; especially because of the arrival of Sherlock Holmes at his flat earlier that day. He had known from the minute Holmes had left that he was in trouble.

He turned the telly off, and got up slowly, eyes fixed on the door.

The doorbell rang again. Dr. Gray walked to the door, heart pounding hard against his ribs. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the doorknob and opened the door to a brown haired and green eyed man in a suit.

"Dr. Gray." Dominic Wood drawled. "So _good_ to see you again." The man was leaning against the doorjamb, almost lazily pointing a gun at Dr. Gray, who oddly felt insulted by this, like he was barely important enough to kill. He almost laughed, it was so strange and ridiculous that in the face of certain death he actually felt _insulted_.

"Hello, Dominic." Dr. Gray replied calmly.

Dominic stepped inside. "You know, it's too bad," he said, shutting the door behind him, "that it has to be like this. But you know what happens when you disobey." He smiled blankly.

"Punishment," Dr. Gray said.

Dominic smiled coldly. "Good. If only you had thought of that before you handed Sherlock Holmes the one thing you promised not to give. Tell me," he said, stepping closer. "Was it worth it?"

"Yes," Dr. Gray said without hesitation. "It was to save an innocent life."

"_If_ it works," Dominic said snidely. "You may have just given it for nothing."

"At least I know I did all I could to correct my mistakes," Dr. Gray said.

Dominic chuckled drily and shook his head. "Goodbye, Dr. Gray," and he fired. It was over in moments, the bullet catching Dr. Gray in the chest. He cried out, falling to the ground hard. His hand unconsciously went to the wound, feeling the blood pour through his fingers.

Dominic knelt beside him. "You should have just done as you were told," he said. "Now, look where it's got you, and for what? John Watson is going to die, whether it be by the drug or by my own hand, your efforts were useless."

Dr. Gray moaned, rolling to his side and drawing in short, ragged breaths. "You won't win," he gasped out.

Dominic stood up. "We already have." He turned and walked out, leaving Dr. Gray to die alone.

###

Sherlock again took his seat by John's bed, sighing heavily.

"You really don't blame me?" John asked timidly after a few moments of silence.

"Really, John, do you think I would _be_ here if I did?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, then flashed John a quick smile.

"I just wanted to make sure," John said softly. "I did terrible things to you, Sherlock."

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock responded. "Truly, it doesn't. None of what you did was of your own accord. My only regret is that you are...in this situation because of me. This would have never happened if it wasn't for me." His voice unexpectedly cracked, and he looked down at the floor, overcome with shame.

"What could you have done?" John asked gently.

"I could have hidden you away," Sherlock said, "kept you from getting any more doses, from hurting any of those people, I don't know, but I would have done it all if I had just _known_-" He cut off, breathing heavily. This was the worst part-that he could have known, could have done something, but he did not; that it had been in his power to do something to prevent this all along, but when it mattered the most, he had missed it. He would _never_ forgive himself if John died because of his mistake.

"But you didn't know," John said. "Like you said, it doesn't matter. Whether I live or whether I die, we can't change anything now." John smiled sadly.

"I know," Sherlock said. " I know we can't."

"So stop blaming yourself for something I don't blame you for," John said, parroting back what Sherlock had said to him earlier. "It's going to be okay."

"How is this okay?" Sherlock demanded, gesturing to the hospital room. "This isn't okay."

John looked around thoughtfully, and then back at Sherlock, that same sad smile on his face.

"You're probably right. But you will stay with me, won't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. "As long as you need me."

"Which is always, obviously." John replied, grinning.

"Obviously," Sherlock repeated, feeling oddly relieved.

John leaned back and closed his eyes. "Good," he said faintly.

Sherlock stayed as John drifted into sleep, the first time he had gone to sleep as himself in weeks.

###

John improved over the next few days; some of his color returned and his strength increased. His relapses were surprisingly few and far in between, and it was becoming easier to end his now rare violent episodes. Still, Sherlock did not dare to think so quickly that this would mean John's survival.

Sherlock didn't go home, despite worried calls from Mrs. Hudson. He assured her everything was fine and let her know she could come visit if she liked. She was at first confused at how John had gone from being a criminal to innocent and dying, but Sherlock explained it patiently to her, and she agreed to come visit as soon as possible.

And visit Mrs. Hudson did; she brought John his favorite treats and generally fussed over him like a doting grandmother, during which Sherlock rolled his eyes and complained about how _sentimental_ she was being, but secretly he was glad she was there. He was exhausted and she was doing a much better job of cheering John up than Sherlock had.

So that was why he felt comfortable finally taking Lestrade's call.

Sherlock had been ignoring Lestrade for a good hour and a half, knowing that if he took the call he would not be able to resist going to whatever case Lestrade had for him. He actually did want to be there with John, but he could not deny the fact that he was bored.

Now that Mrs. Hudson was here, he decided that John would be fine while he was gone. He was recovering quite well and was not likely to relapse while Sherlock was away.

Sherlock excused himself and went outside to take the call.

"Lestrade, please tell me there's been a murder." He said the moment the inspector picked up.

"Looks like someone is feeling better," Lestrade replied warily.

"Quite, now what is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

Lestrade hesitated. "I wasn't going to call you about this, but the victim left a note, and...I think it's for you. Will you come?"

"Give me the address."

###

Sherlock was there in about thirty minutes, and practically ran up to the flat Lestrade had given him the address for. It was just as he had suspected, Moriarty had caught up to Dr. Gray. The man lay on his stomach on the floor in his own blood. Lestrade and rest of Scotland Yard were going through the flat around Dr. Gray's corpse and had not yet noticed Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock felt strangely awkward as he stepped into the room, it felt odd and unfamiliar to be at a crime scene without his faithful army doctor at his side. The others seemed to notice it too, some giving him pitying looks and others refusing to look in his direction. Sherlock didn't at all want their pity, but he made no comment as he stepped closer to examine Dr. Gray's body.

"Good to see you back," Lestrade said.

Sherlock ignored this. "What do you have?"

"He's been dead for about three days now, he was found by a super this morning. Sherlock," he lowered his voice. "Are you okay? Your brother told me everything, and I-"

"Not now, Lestrade," Sherlock answered, kneeling down to inspect Dr. Gray. "Just let me work for once."

Lestrade sighed, but he didn't say anything else.

"He knew the killer," Sherlock announced. "No sign of forced entry, not even a sign of a struggle. He let him in."

"Him? You know who the killer is, then?"

"I have a theory," Sherlock said. "Look how the blood is streaked here. He was shot facing the door, fell on his back there," he pointed, "and as he was dying, he rolled over onto his stomach, meaning to leave a message. Let's see what he wrote, shall we?" Sherlock reached down and carefully moved Dr. Gray's hand. The message consisted of just two words written on the floor with blood, his final warning:

"_HIDE JOHN_."

**Author's Note: I really did try to not end this chapter on a cliffhanger...but it just turned out that way again, I suppose I just can't help it! **

** The next chapter won't be up for at least a week or so, I will be gone all next week and won't be able to work on Chapter 10, but I will try to get it up as soon as possible. **

**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review! **


	10. Make It Stop

**Author's Note: I'm baaack! :) Sorry it took so long, but hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait. It's funny, some of you have compared me to Moffat, and I can't quite decide whether to be flattered or insulted...I'll choose flattered.**

**Also, I would just like to say that I am not an expert on anything hospital or injury related-I am merely speculating. **

**As always, enjoy and let me know what you think!**

10. Make It Stop

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

_HIDE JOHN..._

Sherlock's head was pounding, his hands pressed to his eyes. How could he have been so stupid? John was a sitting duck in that hospital, especially now. Whoever had caught up with Dr. Gray was obviously going to be after John as well-that was this whole scheme had been about, burning Sherlock through John.

He walked out of the room without another word, barely aware of Lestrade's protests.

"Sherlock! Where are you going?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed, and moments later Mycroft answered.

"Yes?"

"We need to move John," Sherlock said.

Thankfully, his brother didn't ask any questions, he informed Sherlock he would take care of it and hung up.

At least Mycroft knew to act first and ask later.

Sherlock was again headed back to the hospital-how many times had he rushed to the hospital just in this past week? Perhaps he should just book himself back into the hospital-he certainly was going there enough. He was sure John would like that, he had been bothering him about resting for about a week now. The detective always brushed him off, he was fine, and he was getting better every day. He had taken off his sling a few days ago-his shoulder was feeling remarkably better. Not 100%, of course, but that was alright. He had also learned how to maneuver better with his broken ribs, which were actually healing quite well, despite all the abuse they had taken. No injury was going to keep Sherlock down for long.

A short time later, Sherlock was walking into John's room.

"John, we need to-"

He cut off when he saw that the bed was empty, the covers thrown back and the pillows rumpled.

He felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach, his breath rushing out of him instantly.

Sherlock stalked back outside, looking about wildly, searching for any sign of where John had gone. After a few minutes, he was getting desperate and about to dial Mycroft in what could only be described as a panic when he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice.

"That's it, dear, nice and easy."

"John," Sherlock breathed, and he turned the corner to see Mrs. Hudson and John making their way slowly down the corridor, arms linked. John was gripping Mrs. Hudson's arm tightly, concentrating hard on each uneasy step, moving the IV cart with one hand. He looked tired, but happy to be up and about. John was a man of action, after all, and did not like to be confined to bed.

Sherlock was nearly crushed by the wave of relief that overcame him at the sight of his friend.

"John! Where have you been?" Sherlock said, sounding more angry than he felt. "You are a hunted man, you can't just go gallivanting off wherever you like! Could you be any more idiotic?"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "What's gotten into you?"

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson," John said quietly, but looking at Sherlock. "We were just out for a walk," he assured him.

"Oh yes, just a walk that could have gotten you _killed_!" Sherlock snapped, and his phone went off, saving him from having to see John's expression.

_Car waiting outside. Do hurry.  
-MH_

"Come on, let's go. Car's waiting." he said roughly, putting his phone in his pocket.

Mrs. Hudson and John both protested at once.

"Sherlock, I can't just leave-"

"John needs to be in the hospital-!"

"John isn't safe here," Sherlock said. "Mycroft will clear everything with your doctors. Please, " he said, looking directly at John, "let's _go_."

John studied him for a moment before nodding his head. "Okay, Sherlock."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed irritably. "Mrs. Hudson, get John a wheelchair. We'll meet you in the lobby."

Mrs. Hudson tutted, but obeyed, scurrying off to find a nurse.

"I can manage," John insisted, but he looked far from being able to manage. Now that Mrs. Hudson was gone, he was wobbling dangerously. He took a careful step forwards, but stumbled. Sherlock's hand shot out immediately and caught John by the arm, steadying him. Still gripping his friend's arm, Sherlock took Mrs. Hudson's spot, supporting him.

"You don't have to help, Sherlock," John said. "I really am fine."

"Says the man who nearly fell on his face just now," Sherlock said critically. "You are clearly not fit to walk anywhere by yourself."

John huffed, but nodded. Together, they walked forward, Sherlock feeling unusually patient with John, never loosening his hold on John's arm. John took Sherlock's wrist for added support, and slowly but surely, they made their way down the hall and to the elevator.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting there for them with the wheelchair, and Sherlock released John's arm, and let Mrs. Hudson take over from there. He was sure he heard John mutter 'thank you', but it was said so quietly Sherlock barely heard.

They drove for a good hour before arriving at a small, white building. When the car stopped, a group of people dressed in white came out and helped move John inside on a stretcher. Sherlock walked with the stretcher until they entered the building, then he stopped, watching as the doctors pushed John away.

Surprisingly enough, Mycroft himself was waiting for them in the foyer.

"I hope this will do, brother," he said. Was that sympathy in his voice?

Sherlock glanced around the room, and back at Mycroft. "I hope so as well." He replied mildly.

"There are two guest rooms if you are wanting to stay," Mycroft said.

"Of course I will be wanting to stay." Sherlock said.

"Good, because you look like you need some rest." Mycroft observed.

"I do not," Sherlock insisted.

"Yes, you do," Mycroft said. "John will be fine for a few hours, I have some of my best looking after him."

"It's not enough. I need to be there, I can't sit by and let your doctors foul it up-"

"Your brother is right, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson interrupted gently, taking his arm. "Where is the guest room?" She asked Mycroft.

"I don't need-" Sherlock began.

"Hush," Mrs. Hudson said firmly. "Now you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I know you haven't slept properly for three weeks. Don't bother trying to deny it-" She held up a finger when Sherlock tried to protest- "and you are going to go rest right now, because heaven knows you need it."

"But-"

"Do as I say!" Mrs. Hudson said. "Now _come_."

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted to resist, but the more Mrs. Hudson insisted, the more inviting sleep sounded.

"Third door from the left," Mycroft told Mrs. Hudson.

Before he knew it, Sherlock was being pulled down the hallway by his insistent landlady. She was saying something to him but Sherlock wasn't listening, lost in his tired daze. Mrs. Hudson opened the door Mycroft indicated and led him inside.

Sherlock was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

###

John was more aware of his relapses than Sherlock thought he was.

He could always feel them coming on, accompanied by a strange, cold sensation that moved through his entire body, then a quick flash of pain, and it was over.

The next thing he would know were vague memories of what he had said and done, but most times it would be a blank spot in his memory, with no idea of what had happened. He had grown to dread this feeling more than anything, because he knew it meant he was losing control.

He was trying to sleep in his new hospital bed provided by Mycroft-and though the bed was quite large and very comfortable, he just couldn't get to sleep. This wasn't exactly a new development-he didn't remember the last time he had slept a full night without the help of sedation, often waking up even more exhausted because of sudden relapses that had happened before he had actually gotten a chance to fall asleep. The fear of this also was what kept him awake most nights, coupled with a fear that he wouldn't even wake up again at all.

The doctor side of him was begging him to at least try to sleep, heaven knew he wasn't doing his body any favors by forcing himself to stay awake, but he just _couldn't_ do it, even though he was so, so tired...

He turned very carefully to his side-the doctors had attached him to so many wires he had lost count, but that may have been just because he felt so slow lately. Dr. Manders himself had even come, Mycroft had decided he would be useful, and useful he was. Dr. Manders had decided the moment he had come that John needed to be on oxygen-something John had not even realized he had needed until he had felt the steady flow of machinated oxygen moving to his lungs. He thought for sure that the oxygen would help him sleep, but it had been a vain hope.

Pulling the overly fluffy blanket up higher over himself, he squeezed his eyes tighter and willed himself to go to sleep.

And if not for him, for Sherlock then.

Seeing Sherlock so hurt and vulnerable was hard for John to see-his friend was supposed to be detached from all of this, John had been praying that Sherlock would detach himself as easily as he did with other people, but the detective had not done so. It was refreshingly and also painfully human of him. John was not only scared for his own life, but what would happen to Sherlock if John were to die. Perhaps he was giving himself too much credit-but watching Sherlock these past few weeks, maybe he wasn't. The detective always had this haunted look in his eyes that never seemed to leave, even when he was happy, or trying to be for John's sake. He knew that Sherlock thought he was hiding his pain, but it couldn't have been any more obvious to John. The detective of course didn't mean to hurt John in any way-but oh, seeing how it affected Sherlock was somehow so much worse than what he was feeling.

John's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open.

Was that Dr. Manders?

The light from the hallway flooded into the room, casting the bright light into John's bed. He turned over, and blinked into the glare, trying to make out the silhouette at the door. That was _not_ Dr. Manders, or any of his other doctors.

The man in the doorway stepped inside and shut the door, and the room instantly became dark again.

"Who are you?" John croaked.

"Why, Dr. Watson, I'm offended," the man said. "You don't remember me?"

Something flickered in the back of John's mind, but then it was gone. "No."

The man sighed, and stepped closer to the bed. "Now, I know you remember," he said calmly. "Just think."

By the small amount of light peeking out from under the curtain of the window, John was able to get a better look at the man's face. It was a sharp, but short face, brown hair and green eyes.

That now familiar odd, cold sensation began in the pit of his stomach, then spread up and down his body. He was relapsing! No, he had to fight it, whoever this man was was dangerous, John knew it-

He blinked several times.

"Ah...Dominic Wood." He said quietly.

"Welcome back, Dr. Watson," Dominic said approvingly. "I was expecting you."

"Were you?" John said coolly. "Took you long enough, didn't it? Wasn't like I was that hard to find, I've been rotting with these people for too long."

Dominic chuckled drily, taking another step closer to the bed. He was now standing next to the machines by John's bed. "Then allow me to end your suffering."

Before John could protest, Dominic unplugged one of the machines, causing a flash of pain in his chest. "What are you doing?" He demanded. "Stop!"

"It's nothing personal," Dominic said, and he then unplugged a second machine, then another, until all were turned off. As an afterthought, he ripped the IV from John's arm, causing John to cry out.

"No! Stop!"

His mind was racing as he tried to understand why this was happening. They worked together, were on the same side, and John hadn't done anything wrong, nothing against Wood, so why-?

John cried out as pain suddenly crippled him, gripping tighter with each passing second. Dominic was pulling something out of his pocket. "Hurts, doesn't it? Don't worry, I'm sure your friend will find you soon enough. All of your doctors are...well, out, so just enjoy it until Sherlock gets here."

John tried to answer, but only was able to moan in response.

Dominic leaned closer to the suffering man, and with the scarf he had pulled from his pocket, tied it around John's mouth.

"Mmph!" John panicked. Without the oxygen and with the scarf around his mouth, it was harder for him to breathe. Not impossible, but quite difficult. Dominic took John's arms, and tied his wrists together.

The cold sensation started again, and suddenly the man standing beside his bed was unrecognizable.

"Shrloc!" John cried. Sherlock was in the house somewhere, he had to warn Sherlock-

"Until next time, Dr. Watson," said the man in a strangely cordial manner, and he left John confused and alone, the pain relentlessly building.

###

Sherlock awoke suddenly. He was not sure what had woke him so abruptly, he remembered feeling that something was wrong, but that had been hours ago, he had been too exhausted to address it. He sat up, and reached over to the nightstand to pick up his phone.

The screen displayed the time- 6:30 pm; he had slept for over three hours.

_One New Message_

_Restricted Number  
2:24 pm_

_John misses you so much that it hurts._

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he practically jumped out of bed and ran to go find John's room.

###

John had long since given up trying to think through how to get help, it was useless, no one could hear him through the scarf the strange man had tied around his mouth, and he didn't have the strength to leave his bed. He wondered why he had not passed out yet, the pain was above anything he had ever experienced, even over the time he was shot, at least he had had been on painkillers then...He never remembered another time when he felt so desperate and scared. He had to be dying, he certainly felt like he was about to any moment.

Sweat poured down his face, and he was panting heavily from the persistent pain. _I can't_, John thought for about the thousandth time. _I can't_. He made an odd sort of hiccuping sound through the scarf, and he realized he was crying, finally noticing the wetness on his cheeks and how soaked the top of the scarf was. How long had he been doing that? He wondered, the water still streaming down his face.

_Please make it stop..._

"John!" A familiar, but panicked voice broke into John's pained haze. His eyes flicked up to see who it was, and almost fainted from relief.

"Shrloc," John nearly sobbed. "Mmmk 't stop. Please...please..."

Sherlock rushed over to the bed and hastily removed the scarf, and untied John's wrists.

John gasped, desperately breathing in the sweet, sweet air as Sherlock set about plugging all the machines back in, putting his oxygen mask back on.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock demanded to know, taking the chair by the bed and gripping his friend's wrist.

John wheezed and coughed in response, trying to speak, but his body had other plans. "Sh...Sh.."

"Just try to breathe," Sherlock commanded, but sounding almost desperate. "Just _breathe_, John."

John obeyed, forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths. Having the oxygen back on also helped considerably. Sherlock glanced towards the IV, and back at John. John could see he wanted to reattach it but didn't know how. John instructed him. It took a few minutes but finally Sherlock succeeded.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked again.

It still hurt so much...John knew it was going to take a few minutes for the machines and medication to do their job, but couldn't it go any faster?

John moaned. "No..." He answered. "Ugh...Sherlock..."

Sherlock's grip on John's wrist tightened. "You're going to be fine, John. You're going to be just fine. Hold on, alright?"

"Okay," John said, his voice wavering. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

Sherlock was pushing a cloth into John's other hand, which the doctor used to wipe the sweat and the tears off his face. He appreciated the gesture much more than he or Sherlock even knew-it was a small sign that his friend trusted that he could have some semblance of control, even if it was just a little, meaningless thing like wiping his face. The pain had yet to subside, but he knew it was over at least for now.

Sherlock kept a firm grip on John's wrist until the final fits of pain abated, murmuring barely intelligible but encouraging words. John finally relaxed, settling back into his pillows.

Sherlock's grip loosened slightly. "John."

"I'm alright." John said weakly, though he felt far from it. "The doctors, where are they?"

"Gone," Sherlock replied simply. "Just gone. I looked for them everywhere, buzzed them about a dozen times, but there's no one here. We're alone."

"Mycroft?"

"I texted him, but he didn't answer."

"What about Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Is there anyone, anything at all that you remember?"

"There was a man in here...but I can't remember anything else after that." John said after a slight hesitation. He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to remember. He knew that he heard the name-if he could just think-

"John-"

"I'm trying," John said. "Give me a minute."

Sherlock was silent for only a moment. "John-!"

"Sherlock, for crying out loud, I told you-"

"Dominic Wood, John! It was Dominic Wood!"

"Who?"

"Dominic Wood, he's the man who helped orchestrate this entire scheme! You said you remember seeing a man enter the room, then nothing? You obviously relapsed when you saw him, meaning it could be the only other man alive associated with this. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_! I should have seen it earlier, should have known..." His face fell just for a moment, then the detective fixed his mouth into a hard line.

"Why did he let you live?" He said after a short pause. He looked at John, then his eyes widened slightly. "Hand me the scarf," he said urgently. "Come, give it here!"

"Alright, alright," John said exasperatedly, picking up the scarf. "Here."

Sherlock practically snatched it from John's hands. He unfolded it and held it out in front of him and scanned it.

"Sherlock-"

"Shh!" He said impatiently, waving John away. "What the h-"

"_Sherlock_!"

"This-this is my scarf," Sherlock said quietly.

"What?"

"It's my scarf, John!" He inspected the scarf, running it through his hands, then stopped abruptly, staring at the edge of the scarf. "Burned," he said. "Look," he held it out for John to see, showing him the edge of the scarf, which was indeed burnt.

"But why?" John asked.

"It's a message," Sherlock breathed. "A warning."

"What's the message?"

"It isn't over," Sherlock said, his hands curling around the scarf, looking agitated. "He's just warming up."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "So what should we do?"

"There isn't anything we can do!" Sherlock shouted suddenly. "We were found today in just a matter of hours, if we try to move again we'll be found again just as easily. No, we'll have to stay. We don't have any other choice." The detective's shoulders slumped. "We're stuck here."

Before John could answer, Sherlock's phone went off.

"Mycroft," he answered.

"_Where are you?_" Mycroft's voice crackled from the phone.

"John's room," Sherlock replied.

"_Good. Neither of you are hurt?_"

"What happened, Mycroft?"

"_Everything is fine for now, Sherlock. We're in the back room-we were all hit with sleeping gas._"

"Who's all?"

"_All the doctors and I._"

"Is Mrs. Hudson with you?" Sherlock demanded.

"_No. She went home a few hours ago,_" Mycroft replied. "_Don't worry, Sherlock, she's fine._"

Sherlock breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief. When he spoke again, though, his voice was skeptical. "I'm going to call her. Is anyone hurt? Are you trapped?"

"_No. All unharmed, and the door is unlocked_."

John saw the detective heave another sigh of relief.

"Good. Call if anything else happens." He hung up.

"Everything okay?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, lost in thought.

"Sherlock-?"

"Yes, everything is fine," Sherlock said shortly. "I'm going to call Mrs. Hudson. Get some rest."

He strode out of the room and shut the door behind him, and John was once again left to fight a losing battle for sleep.


	11. Too Much to Ask For

**Author's Note: Just so we're clear, nothing in this story is meant to be Johnlock-y at all, but I hope everyone will still enjoy! **

**Please do review, I appreciate every one and it does help the writing process to know what you enjoy about the story. Thank you! :)**

11. Too Much to Ask For

It had been a typical, mundane morning that very first day Sherlock Holmes came into the lab at St Bart's, all dark coat and curly hair and rattling off a list of names of bodies he wanted to see. Molly had been the only one available at that time, so the job fell to her. She remembered being attracted first by his assertiveness, a trait that as one who was often overlooked or underestimated so desired to have. Sherlock was confident, in control, and he knew what he wanted, and that was something about him Molly had always liked.

But this particular day was very different.

Molly had not seen Sherlock for several weeks. She had heard only whispers and rumors about where he had been since he was released from the hospital, and she didn't know whether to expect his presence back in the lab anytime soon, which was, in truth, a rather lonely thought.

Today, he burst through the doors the same way he had done that first day, scaring Molly half to death. He held the stack of files she had delivered to him his first day in the hospital. "I need you to wheel out Johnson and Hugh out for me," he said, pulling out their respective files and shoving them at Molly.

Molly, still a bit shocked by his sudden appearance, took a moment to catch up. "Sherlock!" She said as soon as the shock wore off.

"Yes?"

"Where have you been? Are-are you well?" She asked hesitantly, studying him carefully.

"Hmm? Yes. Fine," Sherlock said distractedly, taking a seat. "Johnson and Hugh, Molly, please."

"Uh-alright." Molly knew she should say no, but of course she didn't. He had that effect on her and he knew it too. There wasn't usually any need for him to go so far as to compliment her. Admittedly, she just liked to see if he would do it. Pathetic? Probably a bit, but she couldn't quite get herself to care.

There would be no ill intentioned compliments today, however, as the detective looked more agitated than usual and exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, a stark contrast to his pale face. He was tapping his foot quite rapidly against the floor, already impatient with Molly. It was not unusual for him to be impatient, but he was usually better at hiding it. Molly almost felt afraid to leave him alone as she hurried off to wheel out the two bodies he had asked for.

As she walked, she tried to decide what she would say to Sherlock when she returned. She knew she had to say something, she knew at least from Lestrade that John was dying, but the inspector wouldn't tell her how or why. This, of course, was why the detective looked so haggard. But why was he here? Surely he would not want to leave John's side now.

When Molly returned with the two Sherlock had asked for, his eyes did not light up the same way they usually did when offered something to study and examine, which was a bit worrying. Though he did seem to almost literally throw himself into the job, working feverishly. When he slowed down a bit, Molly decided to try at a conversation.

"Is John alright, Sherlock?" She asked.

Sherlock froze at this question, holding the dead man's arm in mid air, but then shook it off and collected himself, not looking at her. "Not now, Molly."

"Sherlock," she said, hoping she sounded firm. "You don't have to-I mean, you don't need to-"

"Don't what?" Sherlock said coldly, dropping the man's arm, and looking up at her finally, piercing her with those stupidly entrancing eyes.

Molly wasn't going to let him faze her, not this time. She cleared her throat and spoke again. "I said, you don't have to pretend to be okay. I'm not stupid, you know. I can see you, and I can see that you're upset, and that's fine. You don't have to act like you're not."

His expression didn't change, and she wondered if she had said the wrong thing, or if he was going to laugh at her. She mentally braced herself to take whatever snide comment he came up with.

He was quiet for what seemed like ages, and she ducked her head, looking down at her shoes.

"...You're right." Sherlock said quietly, his voice husky.

"What?" Molly said, surprised, looking back up at him. His expression had changed to one that was a cross between sadness and thoughtfulness. "You're right, Molly. I...I _am _upset."

"John." Molly said.

"Yes." There was a short silence as Molly tried to come up with something else to say. Sherlock solved this for her, however, when he spoke again.

"This was supposed to be a distraction. I just wanted a _distraction_." He swore, slamming a fist on the table. Molly flinched, but said nothing.

"Is that too much to ask for? A distraction?" Sherlock asked severely.

"No," Molly said. "I don't think so."

"Then why can't I _find_ one?" Sherlock said tiredly, looking away.

This was a rare thing, Molly knew, for Sherlock to be so vulnerable in front of her. She couldn't let herself falter now.

She reached out and touched his shoulder gently, leaving it there when he did not try to pull away. The fact that he was allowing the touch showed just how hurt he really was.

She knew saying things like "it's going to be alright" or "John will be fine" would be a foolish thing to do, they weren't true and Sherlock would not want her pity or her meaningless condolences. Instead she remained silent until he was ready to talk again, which happened about a minute later.

Sherlock cleared his throat, almost as if he was embarrassed, and looked up at her. "Thank you, Molly."

Molly attempted a half smile. "Sure." She pulled her hand away, nervously tucking it behind her back. "Is there anything else I can do...I mean, is there anything else you need?"

"No. I think I'm done here." Sherlock stood up. "Goodbye, Molly." He nodded and swept out of the room, and Molly stared after him, her mouth slightly open.

In all the time Molly had known him, that was the first time he had actually stopped to say goodbye to her.

###

For a few days after the incident with Dominic Wood, John was actually quite well. Mycroft arranged for 24 hour bodyguards to watch over John's room, despite John's protests and complaints. Sherlock knew it was because John was frustrated he could no longer be trusted to look after himself. But it was necessary and John's aversion to it just couldn't be helped.

There was problems, of course, one guard kept disappearing at random times, and once, when Sherlock got a good look at the man's face, he looked eerily like Dominic Wood. The next time he checked, the resemblance was gone. Sherlock had the man fired immediately, but it did not quite settle his fears.

Unfortunately, John's wellness did not last.

He became violently ill an hour after breakfast that morning before Sherlock went to the lab, immediately losing the contents of his stomach onto the floor beside his bed. He was not able to keep anything down, whatever the doctors tried just came right back up minutes later. Even when he tried stopping eating, his body had other plans, ejecting whatever it could from his stomach, forcing John to have to keep a bin by his bed at all times. When John simply didn't have anything left to vomit, he spent much time dry heaving over his bin, which exhausted him very quickly.

When he was not throwing up, John was curled into a ball on his bed, refusing the doctors' efforts to keep him hydrated. Eventually, they had to resort to getting fluids into his body with another IV.

About three in the afternoon, Sherlock found he could not stand to be in that house a moment longer, and had taken off within the hour. Though the lab had not been the distraction he had wanted, it had been nice somehow-even though all Molly had done was remind him how upset he was, but something about the whole situation had been oddly comforting-not extremely so, but comforting nonetheless.

Now at about seven in the evening, he was finally returning to the house.

Everything seemed normal, but Sherlock did not let himself relax until he saw John in person.

John did not _look _any better than he had when Sherlock had left, but he was sitting up in bed and sipping tentatively from a cup of water, so that had to be a good sign.

"John?"

"Hello," John said hoarsely. "Where have you been?"

"Had some things to do," Sherlock said, still hovering in the doorway.

"Sherlock, I'm not contagious," John said.

"I know," said Sherlock.

John set his glass down on the nightstand. "So are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come in?"

In response, Sherlock walked into the room and took a chair. "You seem better."

John shrugged. "Could be worse." He looked down at his hands, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "You won't want to talk about it."

"John, stop it and just say it already," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

John looked up at Sherlock. "Fine. Okay, then." He cleared his throat. "Look, this is something no one really wants to talk about...and I know you don't want to, but we need to anyways."

"John-"

"We need to talk about what happens if-" John said this in a rush, in a hurry to get the words out, but then he cut off suddenly at the end, as if he had hit a brick wall. "If...if I die," he said slowly after a pause.

Sherlock's mouth fell slightly open, but he didn't let himself show any other sign of being affected by John's statement. He raised an eyebrow. "Of course I don't want to talk about it, because we don't need to talk about it. It's pointless and just stupid, in my opinion, because you're _not_ going to die."

John shook his head. "Sherlock," he said firmly, "you and I both know that-"

"No, no we don't, John, I'm telling you-"

"Sherlock, _please_!" John said loudly, holding up a hand. "Don't do that. You think I don't know that I'm getting worse? Sherlock, I've known for awhile and so have you."

"Known what?" Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

John swore, throwing his hands in the air. "Stop! Stop pretending you can't see it, it's driving me mad, because I know you see it, you see everything! I am _dying_, Sherlock! I am not going to be okay, and pretending it's not happening won't change anything!" He shouted. "It's time you woke up and accepted the facts!"

Sherlock felt as if he had been slapped, he had not realized how much he had been in denial until this point, and of course John saw it, he seemed to understand Sherlock more than the detective understood himself lately...

After a few moments, John covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry," he said at last. He dropped his hands slowly, looking up at Sherlock. "I can see this is hard on you...but I think sometimes you forget how hard it is on _me_."

Sherlock was taken aback by this. "I never meant to leave that impression," he said quietly.

John sighed, but gave a half smile. "It's okay, Sherlock."

There was a brief silence, and then John cleared his throat. "Anyways. I've written up my will, and don't worry, you're free to do whatever you want with my things at the flat, really, I don't care."

"So that means I'm free to burn those infernal jumpers?" Sherlock asked lightly. He wasn't entirely sure if humor was appropriate at this point, but it was too late now, wasn't it?

John looked shocked, mouth slightly open, then unexpectedly burst into laughter.

"Sure, you can burn my jumpers," John said, shaking with mirth. "I suppose I did say you could do what you wanted with my things, I should have known what I was getting into with that one."

"Yes, you should have," Sherlock said, and he flashed John a quick smile.

He looked over at his friend, taking in every detail, studying it, storing it in his Mind Palace, just in case.

John had become abominably thin since he first was admitted to the hospital, his cheeks were gaunt and the hospital gown he wore sagged in some places, but he was still John in the way he laughed, the way he scolded Sherlock, and the way even when he was dying, he was always putting others ahead of himself. Sherlock would never have another friend like him. Losing John was the worst thing he could imagine, not even his Work could ever come close to replacing him.

John chuckled, then yawned. "I suppose I should get some rest now..."

"I'll go, then," Sherlock said hesitantly, but stood up and turned to leave.

"Wait."

Sherlock looked back. "Yes?"

John looked a little embarrassed, but he went on. "Would you mind staying? It's just that-well, you know..."

John didn't need to say anymore, Sherlock knew what he meant. He resumed his seat by John's bed, feeling relieved. "I'll stay."

"Thank you," John said a bit sheepishly, and he closed his eyes.

"Budge over," Sherlock decided suddenly.

John's eyes opened. "What?"

"If I'm going to stay, I'm going to need somewhere to sleep, and I am not going to do so on one of those blasted cots, so I'll say it again-budge over."

John hesitated. "Sherlock, I don't really think that's the best idea-"

"Don't be absurd, John," Sherlock said irritably. "I need a place to sleep, and I also need to stay, so just budge over and stop griping."

John grumbled a bit at this, but he complied and moved over to give the detective space.

"Good." He moved from the chair to the bed, swinging his legs up onto the mattress.

The bed was large enough that they actually had about an inch or two space between them, and they both shifted around until they got comfortable.

"You're going to be okay, you know," John said after about five minutes of silence. "You really are."

Sherlock almost scoffed aloud, but he didn't. Did John really think Sherlock would be just fine without him? If so, it was a naive thought. Then Sherlock realized it. Of course, John was feeling guilty about leaving Sherlock...and he wanted to convince himself and his friend that Sherlock would be alright, and perhaps was foolishly hoping that saying so would help.

But of course, they both knew it wouldn't.

"Sherlock?" John piped up again, his voice unsure, soft.

"What?"

"In case I... don't get to tell you this later, thank you for being my friend. My best friend. You changed my life, and I, uh..." His voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat. "...and I couldn't be more grateful."

An unfamiliar feeling suddenly began squeezing in Sherlock's chest, and he felt unable to speak. Even if he could, he did not even know how he would reply. Words would never be enough to describe the intense camaraderie and love Sherlock felt toward his friend. John had become more like a brother than just his flatmate to him in the time they had been together, and though things hurt now, he knew that he would be forever grateful for the impact his John Watson made on his life.

John seemed to be fine with no reply on Sherlock's part, in fact, it seemed rather like he hadn't really needed one in the first place. They were both content to lay there quietly, just being together for as long as they could.

It didn't take long at all for John to fall asleep, soon enough, his soft snores filled the silence in the room. Sherlock was surprised by the sudden, warm sensation of his flatmate's head on his shoulder. He looked back to see John had slumped forward in his sleep, his head coming to rest on his flatmate. Strangely enough, Sherlock found he did not mind it. Despite the sentimentality of it, the touch was comforting, a reminder that his friend was still there with him, warm and alive and still his John.

Sherlock felt a corner of his mouth turn upwards, and he closed his eyes. His exhaustion soon took over, and he drifted into sleep.


	12. Set on Fire

**Author's Note: Hello lovely readers! If you would be so kind as to read and/or review my other story I just posted, Your Good Health, John, I would love it! I would really like to hear some feedback on it! You guys are great, by the way. :) **

**Enjoy! **

12. Set on Fire

John awoke with a start, breathing heavily. He knew he had just had a nightmare-but for the life of him he couldn't remember a single detail of it. He supposed this was a blessing-judging by the way he was breathing and shaking it had been a bad one.

John felt weaker than he did yesterday, but he blamed this on the nightmare as he laid back down. He looked to the side and saw Sherlock was gone. This didn't surprise him, when the detective did sleep he tended to be an early riser. The clock by his bed read 9:30. He was impressed, he had been able to sleep the entire night and had slept in as well.

It was then he noticed the pain in his chest and stomach, suddenly becoming more severe the moment he was aware of it. He lay there in agony for five minutes until he was gripped by nausea, and he scrabbled for the bin beside his bed and barely made it, vomiting noisily into the bin.

When he finished, he got a proper look at what was inside the bin, and his heart skipped a beat.

Blood.

This wasn't a good thing, not at all...he covered his face with his hands and moaned softly. _No, no, no... _He still felt as if his chest and stomach were on fire as he laid back and tried to force himself to calm down, wiping the blood off his mouth with his hands.

The door opened, and the sound was almost like a trigger, John was up like a shot and once again vomiting into the bin, spitting blood.

"John?" Sherlock's voice came from behind him.

John felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't look up. "Get Dr. Manders," he choked. He retched and vomited again, the action causing even more pain in his abdomen, and he gasped aloud. This was bad, this was _very_ bad...

"Sherlock," John forced out the word through gritted teeth, "hurry..."

"I'm trying to buzz Dr. Manders," Sherlock said back, obviously trying to mask his panic with a forced irritated tone. "He's not answering."

###

"Sir, when should we check on Dr. Watson?" The young, light haired nurse in the doorway asked.

"He had a rough day yesterday," Dr. Manders said. "Give him about ten minutes before you go, he's probably still resting. Mr. Holmes is with him now, he'll buzz us if they need any immediate help."

"Of course, sir," said the nurse, and she nodded and left.

And Dr. Manders' buzzer, mounted on the wall in front of him, remained quiet and dark.

###

Sherlock swore. "Those infernal, _useless_ doctors!"

Along with the intense pain in his stomach, a pounding in John's head began, deliberately and agonizingly. A flash of memory, memory of a sharp pain from a needle and the sound of a voice, commanding him to hold still-then a cold sensation, moving throughout John's body, and he shivered once. Not again, not _now_!

He turned over to face Sherlock, trying desperately to hold on to reality-but his focus slipped, and the man standing in his room became nothing more than his next victim.

He pushed the bin aside, filled with a newfound strength, and got up off his bed, fists clenching at his side.

"You," He said coldly, fixing Sherlock with a hard stare.

John leapt forward and pounced, both of them crashing hard to the floor, Sherlock letting out a grunt of pain as they collided. "You're not getting away from me again," John raved, his voice weaving slightly. The detective didn't move, but rather lay pitifully on the floor, looking rather pathetic. This was Moriarty's greatest foe? A short, harsh laugh escaped John's lips, and before the detective could react, his hands shot out and wrapped around Sherlock's neck, and he began squeezing.

The detective forced out the word "John", but John didn't listen and continued to apply pressure. Sherlock gagged, his hands flopping weakly at his side. John had a nagging, weak impression in the back of his mind that this was _wrong_, that he shouldn't and didn't want to do this. He looked down at the detective, whose face was beginning to turn blue, and he felt something cold in his chest. He gasped sharply, and released his hold on Sherlock's throat, horrified at what he had just tried to do.

Suddenly faint, John collapsed, blackness hovering at the corners of his vision. Beside him, Sherlock was coughing violently, trying to get his breath back.

John struggled to sit upright, but had been severely weakened by his relapse, so he instead sank back to the floor, eyes closing. Moments later, he felt what had to be Sherlock's hands on his arms, helping John back into bed. He heard Sherlock try to buzz Dr. Manders again, then his grunt of frustration, followed by another fit of coughing.

"John? Can you hear me?" Sherlock asked, voice hoarse.

John was just so, so tired...why didn't Sherlock let him sleep? "Mmph," he mumbled.

"John, you can't sleep, you have to stay awake-John, open your eyes _now_."

It took a moment, but John obeyed, though it was far more difficult than it should have been. Sherlock was sitting right in his line of vision, his expression concerned.

"Stay awake," Sherlock commanded.

John nodded, but his eyelids were already dropping.

"_John_," Sherlock said fiercely, shaking his arm. "I need you to do that for me. Can you do that for me?"

It finally clicked in John's muddled, exhausted mind that what Sherlock was asking him to do was important-he had to at least try.  
He nodded again, harder this time, and Sherlock returned the nod. "Good. I'm going to go get Dr. Manders." He got up, and walked out.

John watched his friend's retreating figure and was struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. His vision flickered, and for a moment all he saw was an image of a tall, dark looking man exiting a room. It flickered again and the image was gone, replaced by reality. John released a groan, wrapping his arms around his chest, still fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. He hoped Sherlock hurried, he did not know how long he could keep this up-

His stomach was hurting so badly he did not even notice the added cold sensation, and in the next moment John was slipping, and before he even realized it he had relapsed.

Where was that bloody Sherlock Holmes now? John had had him and he had gotten away!

He made to get up, but his body disobeyed and limply fell back into bed. He snarled, and tried again, but again his efforts were futile.

If it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to end Sherlock Holmes.

###

Sherlock was practically running through the halls, mind and heart racing.

How had John's situation turned for the worse so suddenly? He actually had seemed to be doing well when he went to sleep last night-it had been foolish of him to think that meant anything. He analyzed the situation in more depth than he needed to-and he knew it was because he was trying to ignore the big question-

_What will I do if John dies?_

No. He couldn't, and wouldn't think of it. John would be fine. John would be _fine_.

Sherlock finally made it to Dr. Manders' room, rushing straight in without being asked.

"Mr. Holmes, I didn't expect-"

"John is worse," Sherlock cut him off, there was absolutely no time for pleasantries. "He's throwing up blood and relapsing."

Dr. Manders looked startled, jumping to his feet. "Why didn't you buzz me?" He demanded, buzzing the other nurses.

"I _did_," Sherlock said impatiently. "But that doesn't matter now, come on!"

The doctor followed Sherlock to John's room, the nurses joining them on their way over. At least _their_ buzzers worked!

When they entered the room, they were met with an awful sight. John was writhing and twisting every which way, making sounds like a trapped animal and shouting like a madman.

"John," Sherlock stepped forward to help, but Dr. Manders held out a hand. "No, let us handle it."

The nurses hurried over and restrained John, who was fighting harder than ever, despite the state of his weakened body.

His eyes landed on Sherlock, and they widened. "I'll burn you," he shrieked. "It's time to burn you. It's time to burn you," he continued, sounding like a broken record. "I was never your friend, do you understand, you never saw me, always underestimated me-are you underestimating me now? Are you, Sherlock? _Are you_?"

Sherlock moved closer to the bed, watching the struggling man carefully, and spoke calmly. "Why would I underestimate you?"

"Because that's what you have always done," John responded roughly. "I'm the closest thing to a friend you ever had and you always treated me like the scum on the bottom of your shoe."

Sherlock felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He knew John was only saying these things because of the drug, but it was true, wasn't it? He knew enough that he didn't treat John the way other people treated their friends. Did John even know how much he meant to Sherlock? Sherlock, of course, had never told him verbally, he thought that even John could utilize his barely mediocre deduction skills and figure it out for himself-but what if he hadn't? What if John didn't know?

"You never thought I was worth anything, did you, but you were wrong," John continued. "You were wrong, _I_ tricked you and you fell for it!"

"John, listen," Sherlock said desperately. "Listen to me, please. I _was_ wrong-"

"You were wrong-!" John shouted, and suddenly he choked, his hand going to his chest. "You were always wrong-" The heart monitor began to go wild, beeping loudly at them, and Dr. Manders and the nurses rushed to try to find what had happened with John's heart.

Sherlock was pushed back from the throng, and he could barely see John amidst the group of nurses.

No, John had to know, he had to know-

His thoughts were interrupted by a long, single beep from the heart monitor, and he felt as if something cold was clutching his heart, and the sensation only spread, leaving him feeling dizzy and cold. The scene in front of him felt like a dream, this couldn't really be happening...John hadn't flatlined, John's heart had not stopped, it wasn't possible...

The sounds of the nurses and Dr. Manders' shouting and moving about felt about a thousand miles away, and he vaguely was aware of Dr. Manders beginning CPR on John-and somehow Sherlock knew it was in vain, it was pointless, the seconds seemed to stretch on and on, an automatic timer starting in his head, ticking off the time John had left, and soon it would be too late-they had to save him, they had to-

Sherlock felt a warm hand touch his cold arm-and then he was being led away, no, dragged away, and someone started yelling and screaming hysterically, "_he doesn't know, he doesn't know, I have to tell him!_" and suddenly he realized that that someone was _himself,_ and he was dying, he was dying too- "_you selfish idiot, you never knew, you never understood, why didn't you let me tell you, you can't go, you can't leave me alone!_"

Before he knew it, the door was shutting and he was outside of the room, and someone was standing by him but he didn't know who-it was a nurse, and she was looking at him with so much pity he wanted to scream at her, but he didn't, just stared at her blankly.

"Will he be alright?" He asked, his voice, so fraught with pain and emotion it still sounded foreign. "Can't you save him?"

She took too long to answer, biting her lip. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said finally. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock felt something completely break inside him, and there was a loud rushing in his ears, and a gasping sound that was him again.

"No...please, no..." He felt his knees buckle, and the same warm hand, the nurse's, caught his arm and lowered him carefully to the ground.

He was so, so cold...John wasn't gone, John would get through this, the nurse would see, everyone would see-

"He's gone," the nurse's voice said distantly. He hadn't even realized he had been speaking aloud. "Mr. Holmes, please, you need to breathe."

Sherlock almost laughed. Didn't she see that Sherlock couldn't breathe in a world where John Watson didn't exist?

His entire body felt like dead weight, he couldn't move, couldn't think...the nurse was asking him to stand but he didn't acknowledge her. John Watson wasn't dead, he was Sherlock's friend, his forever dependable army doctor, there was no way he would leave Sherlock like that, he would _never_ do that to him, didn't they understand?

Sherlock pushed away the nurse's arm weakly, John's last words to him ringing in his ears- _You were wrong-you were always wrong._

And he was right-Sherlock had always been wrong.

He had been wrong when he believed there had been nothing off with John, he was just acting strangely-

He had been wrong when he thought John had betrayed him, thought that John was actually capable of that kind of evil-

He was wrong when he thought all that time ago that John would be just another person to tolerate, he was wrong when he thought John would just be his flatmate, he was wrong when he thought John was average, and the worst mistake of all-he was wrong to think that John would survive.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, ignoring the annoyingly persistent nurse, who was trying to get him to stand up, but he refused to move. Suddenly, a shrill electronic ding cut into his daze.

His phone.

He didn't know what made him reach for it, for some insane, preposterous reason he hoped it would be John, proving all those cursed doctors wrong, that John Watson was _alive_-

_Two New Messages_

_Restricted Number  
10:16 am_

_Playground._

_Come and get me._

Sherlock felt something snap and he was filled with undeniable rage, burning and building with each second.

Moriarty and Wood hadn't just burned him, but had set him on fire, an uncontrollable, violent fire-and funny thing about fires-they'll destroy anything put in their path.

###

"_Drive_," Sherlock spat at the cabbie, who had just asked him if he was okay. "Why don't you just worry about doing your job so you can pay off your gambling debts and please your pretty little wife?" He hissed.

The cabbie looked both shocked and furious, but he turned around and shifted into drive anyways, grumbling a few barely muffled insults.

Good. Sherlock leaned back into the seat.

_A bit not good, Sherlock_. John's voice said in his mind.

_Shut up. _Sherlock shot back. _I don't care._

He wasn't even letting himself think about his grief-he would fall apart if he did-what was driving him now was a burning ferocity and a mad desire for revenge-it was something he had felt before, but on a much smaller scale, and now, it was burning him from the inside out.

The ride took about ten minutes-but it felt like days, irritably tapping his foot and his fingers periodically twitching toward John's-_his_ gun. Sherlock had left his phone at the house-he didn't want or need anyone tracking him, this was something he just had to do.

When they arrived, Sherlock hastily paid the cabbie and got out, ignoring the cabbie's protests that the detective had not paid nearly enough. He simply walked away, and the taxi honked long and angrily at him before speeding off.

Sherlock kept walking towards the playground, keeping a hand on his gun. He stopped in front of that old, rusted tube slide, and saw the words that his old school bullies had written on the tube.

"Ah, memories," said a smooth, silky voice from behind him.

Sherlock spun around, drawing his gun and pointing it at the man standing there.

"It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Sherlock Holmes," said Dominic Wood. "You know who I am, of course?"

"Of course I do," said Sherlock harshly.

"My, my, you seem upset," Dominic said coldly. "Does John Watson have something to do with that?"

Sherlock had to stop himself from lunging at the man and throttling him-the only thing that helped was reminding himself that he would make Dominic Wood suffer all in good time. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

"Perhaps." He said dismissively.

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "In my time, I have seen many, many desperate people," he said casually. "People desperate for money, for love, for fame, for gain...we are a desperate race, Sherlock, there's no other kind quite like us."

Sherlock didn't respond, keeping his gun trained on Dominic.

"And then, there is another kind of desperation," Dominic continued. "A darker, richer desperation that once given into, never ends, never is satisfied."

"And what's that?"

"Desperation for blood," Dominic said softly. "And you, Sherlock Holmes, are absolutely bursting with it. I can see it, not just by that," he said, gesturing carelessly to Sherlock's gun, "But by just looking at you, your face, especially, you should see how pale you are-"

"Do you actually have a point or are you just rambling to hear yourself talk?" Sherlock snapped.

"What I'm trying to say is that I understand, Sherlock," he said. "Your desperation, that is. You want my blood, and I wanted yours."

"Wanted mine? You don't still?" Sherlock said mockingly.

"I did until I met Mr. Moriarty," replied Dominic coolly. "And I learned that desperation was so _useless_. Blood doesn't satisfy. You don't really get what you want, because they die, painless, easy, and you are left with only their blood. No, I found a much more satisfying way, and you, Sherlock, are the product of it. Look at you...you're suffering far, far more than if I had just decided to kill you. If there is something I learned, is that physical death is not a terrible fate-but dying and still living on is." Dominic paused. "You're a desperate man, Sherlock Holmes. Watch yourself."

Sherlock laughed bitterly, then cocked his gun. "Do you really think I'm here to kill you? Oh no, Mr. Wood, I'm not here to kill you. I'm here...to burn you."

Sherlock stepped forward, and before Dominic could react, brought the gun crashing down on his head. Dominic collapsed, and he looked up at Sherlock with a mad smile on his face.

"Get up," Sherlock commanded, pointing the gun at Dominic again. "On your knees, now."

Still smiling, Dominic obeyed. "Remember what I said, Sherlock-"

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed. "Just shut up and listen, you had your turn, now it's mine. You're right, I do have a desperation for blood. But you forgot that there are two types of that kind of desperation." Sherlock kicked Dominic hard in the chest, and the man fell backwards with a grunt. "There's the kind that you spoke of-the one that takes all of the blood." He smiled blankly down at Dominic, and smashed the gun across his jaw.

"But the second type, that is the one you want to avoid. Because that kind, Mr. Wood, is not taking all the blood, but knowing how _much_ to take." He was breathing heavily, an odd euphoria rising up in his chest, the sound of the man who brought down John Watson finally in pain was exactly what he wanted to hear. "So you were right. I _am_ desperate. Desperate to see you pay for every moment that he suffered," Sherlock snarled, and he brought his foot down on Dominic's ribs, and heard the sickening crack of a rib being broken. "Desperate to see you bleed." He knelt, gesturing to the blood on Dominic's face. "And desperate enough to do _anything_ to make that happen."

Dominic coughed and spat blood. He turned to his side, grinning up at Sherlock. "I told him I could do it," he said thickly. "Little did I know just how easy it would be."

Sherlock stood up, pointing his gun at Dominic. "Shut up."

"Take away John Watson and what do you have?" Dominic gestured to Sherlock. "A broken down, pathetic man who was never worth anything. Too bad the only person who ever thought you were actually important is dead."

Sherlock roared in rage, delivering another violent blow to Dominic's jaw.

"And it's too bad he was too idiotic to see what a twisted man you really are. Do you think he'd be proud if he saw you now?"

"John Watson is _dead_!" Sherlock screamed, and he raised his gun again, to hurt him, he wanted to hurt him-and suddenly, a strong hand gripped his arm.

"Sherlock, what are you _doing_?"

Sherlock froze, and he turned his head to see that it was Lestrade, and so much of him had been hoping it was John, he felt something break for the second time that day.

"Lestrade," he choked.

The detective inspector looked horrified, almost scared. "Hand me the gun, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitated, and Lestrade held out his hand expectantly. Slowly, he put the gun into Lestrade's waiting hand.

"Good," Lestrade said softly. "Come with me, now."

Sherlock looked back at Dominic, and back to Lestrade, feeling unable to speak.

"The others will take care of him," said Lestrade. "But you are coming with me. Up you get."

Sherlock hadn't even realized he had slumped to his knees. He suddenly just felt so weak...

With his other hand, Lestrade helped Sherlock to his feet. "Come on."

Sherlock obeyed, following Lestrade. As they walked away, Sherlock's mad rage was melting away, quickly overwhelmed again by grief, and it was enough to make him want to...he stopped, and without thinking, grabbed Lestrade's arm.

"Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock muttered. "Want...John."

"I know you do," Lestrade said, his voice surprisingly sympathetic for just having witnessed him beating another man. "Come on, Sherlock, you have to keep going."

Sherlock obeyed, and together they walked to Lestrade's car. They got in, and both were silent for a moment.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked awkwardly, starting the car.

"What do you think?" Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Yeah, sorry, that was a stupid question," Lestrade said, a small, sad smile on his face.

"Yes, it was."

"It's okay, though, because you're going to be."

Sherlock nearly scoffed aloud, but he resisted. He wasn't going to be alright for a long time. Vaguely, he remembered one of the only times John asked Sherlock about his well being verbally, after the bombing of the flat across the street.

_Hey, you alright?_

_Oh, me? Fine._

He'd give anything just for John to be the one who had came and stopped him, the one who asked him if he was alright.

But then again, he would have never wanted John to see him like this.

He leaned back against the head rest, and ignored Lestrade as they drove away from the playground, for now leaving his mindless anger behind.

**Author's Note: I suppose all I can say is that the story isn't over yet. Like I said in Chapter 3, please don't leave me, it will be worth it, I promise. **

**Oh wow. My heart hurts. Please review and join me in my heartbreak.**


	13. I Hate You

**Author's Note: *sheepishly walks in* Um, hi guys! *nervous laugh* Well, I don't think I have gotten so many death threats in my entire life, the reaction to Chapter 12 was, to say the least, violent-I expected it, but at the same time I was not prepared for the level of reaction I got from you guys, wow! **

**Despite all the anger, I still loved hearing all your feedback-please keep it coming, it's always beneficial to me to hear what you think! **

**Enjoy!**

13. I Hate You

Lestrade had never seen Sherlock be so much of an emotional wreck. Granted, if you didn't know Sherlock, you probably wouldn't even be able to tell there was anything wrong with him, at most you might say he was irritated or grumpy... but Lestrade knew better.

He had gotten the call a few hours before that Sherlock was missing-he had run off and escaped shortly after finding out that John Watson's heart had stopped. This had been a shock and a blow to Lestrade, he had known that John was dying but he had fully expected the doctor to survive. He had never even thought that John would be beaten by this, perhaps he had never let himself do so. He hadn't and still wasn't able to imagine a world without John Watson; he had been a good man, anyone who was patient and kind enough to not only live with but also change Sherlock Holmes was amazing in Lestrade's book. And the fact that John became the detective's friend was another marvel entirely. Lestrade had thought once that Sherlock would be content to spend the rest of his life alone, but then both the detective and his army doctor had proved the inspector wrong yet again.

Lestrade was upset, certainly-but the reality of John's death hadn't quite sunk in, he didn't quite know what he felt yet.

After getting the call, Lestrade had immediately set off to find Sherlock-a man like that scorned was a dangerous thing, he knew, especially when he got another call as he was driving away from the Yard that someone had stolen John's gun from the evidence locker, which made the search for Sherlock even more urgent. When Lestrade had found Sherlock that first time at the playground, he had tracked the detective down by using the GPS locator on his phone-but this time, Sherlock had not taken his phone with him.

Lestrade had been running out of ideas when the thought occurred to him to look at the playground where he had found Sherlock the first time-and it had been the right call.

Lestrade was appalled when he had found Sherlock, but not surprised to see the detective was getting revenge for John. He had actually looked at the other man and thought 'Good'- anyone responsible for taking a man like John Watson out of the world deserved what he got. Of course he had to follow protocol, so he "arrested" Sherlock, in a sense. Taking him in was a way of pleasing both his superiors and keeping Sherlock from doing anything else, well, _rash_, for the lack of a better word. Lestrade had never seen the detective lose control like that, it had been horrifying and at the same time had made a strange sort of sense.

Lestrade decided that keeping an eye on Sherlock was probably the best course of action-and though he should have taken Sherlock straight to the Yard, he headed to his flat-the missus was, well, going to be 'away' for awhile anyways, it was getting late and the detective, though he was trying desperately to hide it, looked about ready to drop off at any moment.

"Why aren't you going to the Yard?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You want to spend the night in a cell?"

Sherlock huffed and mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said, I don't need you to look after me," Sherlock said, expression twisted into a scowl.

"Yeah, about that, I don't really care."

Sherlock huffed again, just as they pulled up to the flat.

Surprisingly, Sherlock obediently followed Lestrade up to his flat. "Home sweet home," Lestrade said with fake cheeriness, opening the door. His place wasn't much, but it was his home after all.

He tried to ignore Sherlock analyzing his living space and went to go find some blankets and pillows for the detective to use. When he returned, Sherlock was still studying the room.

"Take these and go to bed," Lestrade said, shoving the blanket and pillow he had found into the detective's hands. "You can use the couch."

Sherlock looked critically at the couch, and back to Lestrade. "No thank you."

"Look, you can either go to sleep on that couch now, or you can go spend the night in a cell," Lestrade said. "Which will it be?"

The detective and the inspector stared each other down for a few, short moments-then Sherlock shrugged off his coat in response, draping it over an armchair, then flopping unceremoniously onto the couch.

"Good." Lestrade said. "Good night."

Sherlock simply turned over so his back was facing Lestrade's, wrapping himself up tightly in the blanket the inspector had given him. It wasn't like the detective to be so quiet-it was off putting. Lestrade moved to the armchair, slumping into it with a great sigh. If anyone had told him a month ago that Sherlock Holmes would be spending the night at his place, he would have had them carted off to the loony bin.

It took the detective a long time to fall asleep, but eventually he did, his breathing becoming low and even.

The man looked so much more innocent when he was sleeping, in fact, he rather looked like the kid everyone thought he was.

It wasn't long before the inspector himself dropped off to sleep.

###

The next morning, Lestrade took Sherlock to his office, because sticking him in a jail cell, still didn't feel appropriate, especially for a man who had only lost control because he was grieving his friend.

Lestrade marched Sherlock through the Yard to his office, silencing any protests with a look, the one that meant shut-up-or-you're-fired. Donovan had been particularly curious, especially since Sherlock still had some blood on his coat, but he would deal with her later.

When they made it to Lestrade's office, he sat Sherlock down and after a few minutes, it became a bit awkward. What was he supposed to-

"You're free to leave, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock coldly.

"Who says I want to leave?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You do." He opened his mouth to launch into a detailed deduction, but something unexpected happened-he stopped. His eyebrows wrinkled, and he shut his mouth, and it was almost like he didn't even see the point of _trying_ anymore. The detective's shoulders sagged and he looked away. "Just go."

Lestrade was about to answer when his phone rang. He picked it up.

"_Wood ready for interrogation, sir."_

"I'll be right there."

"_Room 201_."

"Thank you. Goodbye." Lestrade hung up and slipped his phone into his pocket. "Will you be okay here?" He asked Sherlock.

Sherlock waved a hand, as if shooing him away, and leaned back and closed his eyes. "Go."

Lestrade was hesitant, but he had a perfect babysitter in mind-

Sally Donovan.

If the sergeant thought Sherlock had done anything wrong, she wouldn't let him out of her sight for a second; she was overly eager to once and for all catch him in the crime she always suspected him of committing.

He walked out of the office, and found Donovan by the coffee machine. "Keep an eye on Sherlock, will you?" Lestrade said. He pretended to check that no one was listening, and leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. "We think he might have, you know," he moved a finger across his throat-"and we need someone to watch him until we know for sure."

Donovan glanced over at Lestrade's office window, at Sherlock sitting morosely in one of the inspector's chairs.

"Don't look at him," Lestrade said. "We don't want him knowing we suspect him yet."

"Of course," she said, suddenly businesslike. "I'll keep an eye on him, sir."

"Thank you, Donovan." He nodded to her and turned around, hiding the slight smirk that came on his face.

He had never hired a babysitter so easily.

###

Lestrade may have thought he was being discreet, but as always, the man was just about as discreet as an elephant.

Sherlock watched as Lestrade spoke to Donovan, knowing all too well what he was asking her to do. Sherlock was a grown man, he didn't need a babysitter-and he wasn't going to stay around here either.

He waited patiently-as determined as Donovan was to catch him in the act of some horrendous crime, he knew that eventually even she would tire of watching him.

His patience was rewarded-twenty minutes later, she said something to Anderson and made a beeline for the bathroom.

It was all too easy to slip out-Anderson was not known for his observational skills, after all-and soon enough Sherlock had made his way out of Scotland Yard. He almost hailed a taxi-but decided to take the tube instead, since whenever Lestrade started his next superfluous search for Sherlock, he would first check with the taxi system, seeing as the detective was normally more apt to take a cab.

Sherlock didn't really care much where he went-Lestrade was more unlikely to find him if he took a random route anyways-he just decided he would ride until he had enough of the people on the tube. That happened about thirty minutes later. People were giving him odd looks, and for a brief moment Sherlock was confused-then he looked down at his coat.

Oh.

He still had some of Dominic's blood on his coat, and strangely he had a sudden desire to laugh. Of course people would be so stupid as to think he had actually-

_You went on the tube like that?_

_None of the cabs would take me!_

Just like that, his brief, unexpected mirth was dashed. He shook his head irritably. He was not going to think about John.

But it was too late-that one memory had opened the floodgate for hundreds of other memories, John's voice and his face coming unbidden interrupting any peace he had forced himself to have-even when John was gone he had found a way into Sherlock's life-no, he was _not_ going to lose it on this bloody tube of ridiculous, stupid people that he suddenly detested more than he had ever detested anything in the entire world because none of them, none of them could ever be John, not if they tried every day for a thousand years, all of them put together would never come close to comparing.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he finally noticed the unintentional moisture in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but the action only seemed to egg them on, one tear escaping and pooling underneath his eye. Hastily, he wiped it away, but it was replaced by another. He nearly growled aloud-these cursed emotions, what the devil was the point of them anyway? He knew they didn't fix anything, no amount of emotion was going to bring John back.

He slumped forward, elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the stinging tears threatening to fall, and tried to fight against the realization that was quickly dawning on him-he missed John.

Sherlock had never really _missed_ anyone before-he hadn't ever truly had an occasion to do so-the few people in his life had always stayed around, in one way or another, and the ones who left, well, he didn't care enough to miss them anyhow-so this was truly his first time experiencing the feeling, and it was, to say the least, awful. It was a lonely feeling, which was odd enough because Sherlock had never been one to feel lonely-he was used to being alone, certainly, and usually did not mind it, often preferred it even, but this was new, a great, gnawing ache in his chest that he felt would never be satisfied.

_I hate you, John_, Sherlock thought bitterly, still vainly fighting against the tears. _Look what you've done to me-I don't need this!_

And at that moment, he did-he hated John for needing a flatmate, hated him for deciding so easily to move in with Sherlock-who did that? He didn't actually think at first John would be so stupidly agreeable and patient-he had expected John to take off at the first sign of trouble, but of course he didn't, and Sherlock hated him for that too, for staying when no one else in their right mind would, hated John for stepping into his life and becoming his best friend, hated him for getting the detective to actually _care_ about him, even though they should have never, ever been friends...Why did everyone think Sherlock was the selfish one, that was _John_, so rudely coming into the detective's life, messing it all up, then walking right out as if it all had meant absolutely nothing, as if he hadn't done anything.

_I need you, John, and I hate you for that_...

Sherlock sat up, irritably dabbing at his eyes, and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He was fine, he was fine...

Over the intercom, a female voice announced that they were arriving in Cardiff, and around him the people who were getting off began to bustle around, gathering up their things, snapping Sherlock back to the world. He decided this would be a good time to get off-he didn't think he could stand any more time with these people. He sniffed, quickly wiping off his face and ignoring the questioning looks of the other passengers as he stepped off with the others who were exiting the tube.

He began walking briskly, acting as if he had a destination and a purpose, but really, he didn't have the faintest idea where he was going to go. He just needed to be in action, moving, breathing, and most of all, _not_ thinking about John.

If he just kept moving, he would figure out how to be alright.

He just had to keep going.

###

As he left Wood's hospital room, Lestrade's phone rang.

"Yes, Donovan?"

"He's gone," Donovan said, sounding panicked. "I turned my back just for a minute and-"

"What do you mean, gone?" Lestrade demanded. "You let him go?"

"I'm sorry," Donovan said, her voice almost a wail. "I had Anderson watch him while I was gone-"

"Do you understand what you have done?" Lestrade said slowly, exercising all his self control in order to keep from screaming at her.

"Is he-?"

"Dangerous? His best friend just died, so yes, I imagine he would be very dangerous. You better find out where he went, _now_," Lestrade replied coldly.

"Yes, sir," said Donovan, sounding flustered. There was a click as the phone disconnected.

Lestrade groaned, running a hand over his face. He should have handcuffed that idiot to the bloody chair, but even then, the man probably still would have found a way to escape.

Lestrade was going to kill him when he found him.

###

It was dark.

Why was it so dark?

He tried blinking, but his eyelids didn't obey, and someone said something above him, the words unclear, muffled.

He was trying, he was trying so hard, but it was like moving through deep, thick mud, keeping him from moving forward too far, pulling him downwards the more he struggled...

Something in the back of his mind told him he had to keep trying-and he did, only to fall deeper and farther.

He saw a small streak of light flicker across the darkness, then it was gone, and John Watson clawed his way through the black and opened his eyes to the world.

**Author's Note: I did tell you, but did you listen? **

** ...As always, review and let me know what you think! **


	14. Find Him

14. Find Him

Ten days since John died.

That was how he kept track of the days now; every morning he would wake with the next number of days, and his mood only worsened with each passing number, and today, on day ten, he was feeling at his lowest. Sherlock was still in Cardiff-he wasn't ready to go home yet, to accept John's death and go on with his life. He probably had already missed the funeral; but even if he had been home he wouldn't have gone, it would have been a pointless, dull and sentimental endeavour anyways. He just didn't see the _point_ of funerals, what good was it to put people into a room and have them cry at each other for an hour? Sherlock had no desire to be part of it, and he seriously doubted anyone could properly do John's life justice anyways.

Sherlock went into the pub today only because he was bored-upset still, yes-but nonetheless bored. He needed something to do, and he was desperate enough to go to a pub to do so, even if that meant there was only stupid, drunk people to deduce. Sherlock himself was not much of a drinker, he despised the way alcohol slowed both his mind and his body, not at all good news for working...but he made an exception today. He needed a distraction, and if he had to resort to a bit of alcohol to do so, so be it. Sherlock had been in the club for a mere hour and he had already made two women cry; he had not so tactfully proved to each one that their husbands were both having an affair. He felt neither pleased with himself or ashamed, though he knew a certain army doctor would have told him _exactly_ what he should feel. Sherlock groaned inwardly. Did it really matter anymore what John would have thought? He was getting more and more pathetic by the day...

Despite this, he ordered another drink.

###

_2 days earlier_

That git could really hide when he wanted to.

Lestrade was not having much luck in the search for Sherlock, it had been eight days and there was hardly any sign of him. A few people here and there had spotted him, but it wasn't enough to help pinpoint his exact location. Lestrade just hoped wherever that idiot detective was, he wasn't getting into trouble. He then dismissed that idea, this was Sherlock Holmes they were talking about, of course he was. The trick was to find him before he got into too _much_ trouble.

Today, Lestrade was in Sussex, he had officers combing the place and had not received any word from them when a long, sleek black car pulled up alongside him on the street.

Lestrade knew exactly who it was-Sherlock's slightly creepy older brother Mycroft Holmes. The man had "kidnapped" Lestrade like this a few times before, the most recent time being when it had just been found out John had actually been drugged and wasn't actually a psychopath, and Mycroft had basically commanded Lestrade to keep an eye on Sherlock. Lestrade had laughed, he didn't need to be bribed by big brother to look out for the detective, and he didn't need to be now either.

"This better be bloody important," he said as he got into the car, knowing Mycroft would hear, he probably had some sort of video feed in the car watching him already. "If you haven't heard, your brother has gone missing and I'm trying to find him."

"And I applaud you for your efforts, Detective Inspector," said a voice, and Lestrade jumped. The British government himself was sitting in the seat across from him.

"For goodness sake," Lestrade spluttered. "Don't _do_ that!"

"Do what?" Mycroft asked, sounding amused.

"Do...you, I guess," Lestrade said, unable to come up with any other description. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Now was there something that you wanted?"

"I've been trying to contact you," Mycroft replied coolly.

"Yeah, well, I've been busy," Lestrade said irritably, running a hand through his hair. "Your idiot brother has got me running all over England. Don't tell me you haven't been trying to find him too."

"Of course I have," said Mycroft, feigning offense. "But with my brother, locating him isn't always as simple as you would think, Inspector."

"You really haven't been able to find him? You, of all people." Lestrade said incredulously, shaking his head. "You're his brother and the British government, for heaven's sake!"

"All of those other times you and I have found him, Sherlock wanted to be found, whether he knew it or not," Mycroft said. "When my brother does not want to be found, he will not be found."

"So you picked me up just to tell me it's impossible to find him," Lestrade said. "Thanks for that," he added sarcastically.

"You didn't let me finish, Inspector," said Mycroft. "He will not be found unless you give him a _reason_ to be found. I've been trying to contact you because I have his reason."

"And that is?"

Mycroft raised his chin slightly. "Eight days ago Sherlock ran away because John Watson was dead," he said slowly. "But what he doesn't know is that John Watson is _alive_."

Lestrade abruptly drew back as if he had been hit, and to be honest, he felt like he had.

"What?" He said, still hardly daring to believe it. "They told me he was dead, they said there was nothing else they could have done, his heart stopped and he _died_-"

"And they weren't lying to you," Mycroft said. "John _was_ dead when Sherlock left the house, but a nurse gave him the news prematurely-if she had waited five more minutes, my brother wouldn't be running amok who knows where." He finished, sounding almost bitter.

"And what? He just woke up later?"

"It was a miracle," Mycroft replied. "He was dead for seven minutes, and Dr. Manders said they were nearly ready to let him go when his heart somehow started again; they exercised the necessary measures and were able to save him. Unfortunately, he did suffer some slight brain damage-"

"_Slight_ brain damage?" Lestrade asked. "Is he going to be alright?"

"Again, Inspector, let me finish," Mycroft said calmly. "Though he did suffer some brain damage, the effects were minimal-he will have some trouble walking and maybe even talking for awhile, but he should be able to make a full recovery in time."

Lestrade swore quietly. "And this whole time Sherlock has been thinking he's dead..."

"I trust you'll find him and tell him the news, Inspector?"

"Yes, of course."

The car came to a slow stop. "Good." Mycroft said. "Be quick, won't you?" He said as way of goodbye.

Lestrade nodded in response, his head still reeling from the news. Though plenty important before, it was even more so now that the inspector find Sherlock. He climbed out of the car, and the door shut behind him. He didn't even look back to see the car drive away-he had work to do.

###

_Present Day_

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket-a few days ago he had snuck back to the house and taken it back from where he had left it in the room he had been staying in. Fortunately, he was quick and efficient enough that he didn't have to see the rest of the house. The moment he escaped he made sure the GPS on his phone was turned off, he needed the phone but he would not have anyone knowing his whereabouts, not yet.

Now, he was looking through the phone, looking for any kind of distraction-but only finding more reminders of his friend: an absurd amount of text messages, the speed dial list John had made him set up (firstly John, then Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson), haphazard pictures taken of "clues" when John had once tried to solve a case by himself, mistaken, crooked pictures taken of his face and hands when he had been trying to figure out Sherlock's camera. It was all so ridiculously, stupidly, _wonderfully_ John that it made him laugh, just a little, though now he missed John more than ever.

"Is that your boyfriend?" a voice asked sneeringly from beside him, and Sherlock glanced over to see who had spoken: a burly, middle aged man with thick brown hair. Sherlock was unsurprised to deduce that this was the third man today that was cheating on his wife.

"Sod off," Sherlock snapped, shoving the phone in his pocket. "You don't see me getting into _your_ business, do you?"

"Must have been a bad breakup then," the man sniggered, unfazed.

Sherlock had actually been trying to be somewhat tolerant-tolerant by his standards, anyway-but now, this man had done it. Sherlock usually didn't care when people assumed he and John were a gay couple, because he and the doctor both knew the truth, so what did it matter? If people wanted to think that, obviously it just showed that _they_ were stupid and wrong-but now with John gone, it felt so..._disrespectful_, shameful even, especially when John was not even here to defend himself.

"You're one to talk," Sherlock said coldly. "You just broke up with your lover, didn't you? She found out you were married, but your poor little wife doesn't know about the lover, does she?"

The man, who had been so calm before, was now turning a deep shade of red. Obviously the man was taking anger management classes...learning how to control his anger, then, but he would be easy enough to snap.

"How do you know about that?" The man demanded.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a female voice coming from behind them. "The truth finally comes out, doesn't it?" Both Sherlock and the man turned to face the blonde woman who had just arrived, and she looked furious.

"Stella. How long were you standing there?" The man asked, looking rather uncomfortable.

"Long enough, Charlie, " Stella snapped.

"You don't really believe this guy over me, do you?" Charlie demanded.

Stella responded by slapping her husband across the face, and marched away.

Sherlock did not see the fist coming for him until it was too late, and the force of the punch threw him off his stool and sent him flying into a nearby table, which thankfully was unoccupied, though it still didn't make for a very graceful landing.

"Who do you think you are, anyways?" Charlie shouted at him.

Sherlock smiled innocently up at him, ignoring the pain and the swelling that was already beginning on his left eye. "You asked for it, didn't you? She was bound to leave you soon anyways, she had her eye on her co-worker-" Charlie's face was turning absolutely purple with rage and he made to attack again when a loud voice interrupted them.

"Break it up!"

Detective Inspector Lestrade himself strode up to them, holding up his badge. His expression was, strangely enough, unreadable. "You'll have to excuse my friend here," he said to Charlie, who had backed away at the sight of the badge. "He's a bit drunk, he doesn't know what he's saying."

"I'm not drunk!" Sherlock protested, as Lestrade stepped over the fallen chair and pulled the detective rather roughly to a standing position.

"Sure, you're not. Come on." He yanked on Sherlock's arm, and the two of them made their exit, with Charlie glowering after them.

"This is bloody ridiculous," Lestrade said as they stepped out onto the street. "This is the _third_ time I have found you in some sort of fight, you great tosser. What the devil were you thinking?" He shook his head and pointed to his car, which was parked close to them. "Get in."

"Arresting me, Inspector?" Sherlock asked snidely.

"Sort of," Lestrade said. "Just get in the car."

Sherlock smirked, but he obeyed. Lestrade followed, typing something on his phone. He started the car, and a moment later his phone rang.

"Hello? Yes, he's right here." Lestrade held out the phone to Sherlock, a ridiculous smile on his face. "It's for you."

Sherlock cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but took the phone from him. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sherlock."

It couldn't be-it wasn't-

"_John_."

**Author's Note: Yes, as always, let me know what you think! I hope you liked it! **

**Just a few more chapters to go-it's been amazing so far, thank you guys for all the support! **


	15. Don't Leave Me

15. Don't Leave Me

Lestrade sorely wished he had a camera.

The look that came on Sherlock's face was priceless, absolutely _priceless_, more emotions crossing his face at once than the inspector had ever seen the detective express in all the years they had known each other. Shock, because he was speaking to his presumedly dead best friend, fear that perhaps it wasn't really who he thought it was, realization, then a pure, unmistakable joy and excitement lighting up his features, (barely restrained only by his inherent tendency to stay in control). It was as if someone had flipped a switch and brought the detective back to life. The Sherlock the inspector had brought out of the dingy pub just a few minutes ago was a completely different man than the one now sitting across from him, _this_ was Sherlock Holmes, the side that very few were privileged enough to see, the side that was so rare but nonetheless still _real_, and as of yet only Sherlock's John had been able to bring it out.

Sherlock seemed barely able to speak, his face pale. "John," he said again, his voice strained from the effort to appear devoid of emotion.

Lestrade faintly heard John responding from the other end, but unfortunately his words were unintelligible. While the doctor was speaking, a small smile curved Sherlock's lips.

"Obvious," Sherlock said, sounding after so long like his normal self, "the nurse misinformed me, she should have waited, poor judgment on her part." His voice softened slightly. "My part too. I should have-"

John cut him off then, his voice coming a bit louder and sternly. Lestrade still couldn't understand the words; though what he could hear actually did tell him all he needed to know, as usual his friend was telling him what's what.

Sherlock listened, then spoke, with a superior air- "Of course I knew! I realized it not long after, I was just... giving you time to recover, is all."

Lestrade heard a short laugh from the other end and what he was pretty sure were the words _no, you didn't_.

Sherlock laughed then, a quick, bright laugh. "Fine." A pause. "Yes. Yes. I'll be there soon. Yes." He cleared his throat. "Of course. Goodbye." Sherlock hung up the phone and handed it back to Lestrade, keeping his eyes pointed forwards. "Shut up."

"What?" Lestrade asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible.

"I can practically _hear_ you smiling, so do me a favor and shut up." Sherlock replied in his usual matter of fact tone (though the small half smile on his face didn't disappear).

"How you feeling, then?" Lestrade questioned, shifting the car into drive.

Sherlock scoffed, one eyebrow quirking upward. "What do you think, Inspector?" He said, a note of amusement in his voice.

"Good," said Lestrade, pulling onto the road. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke again. "You know, you could have known a lot sooner if you hadn't been so bloody stubborn-"

"Yes, alright," Sherlock said, waving a hand impatiently. "I thought I told you to hush."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but complied. He didn't feel the need to talk anyway, like Sherlock, he was content with the silence.

###

It had been three hours since John had called Sherlock, and the detective was due to arrive here any moment now. He actually felt a bit nervous, what were you supposed to say to someone who had thought you were dead, and to someone who was Sherlock Holmes, no less?

John had decided to keep it simple on the phone-he thought it would be more appropriate to really talk things out in person, but now he had no idea what to say. He was happy to see his friend again, it had been nearly two weeks and he had been worried about him and did rather miss his company. He was quite angry at Mycroft and his crew of doctors for letting Sherlock labor so long under the delusion that John was dead, he had already yelled himself hoarse at his friend's insufferable brother, and had to restrain himself from shouting at the nurse who had told Sherlock John was dead. In fact, it had taken all his self control not to scream at her, because of her mistake Sherlock had run off and gotten himself into all sorts of trouble. John had already heard about the detective tracking down Dominic Wood and putting him in the hospital, and who knows what else he did? The man had almost literally disappeared for over a week, no one had known where he was or what he was doing. The only thing John had been told for days was "don't worry about Sherlock, you just worry about your own health", and this had made him furious each time. He was going to be fine, why the devil would he need to worry about his own health for, when his best friend was missing? He had been coming very close to going out of his mind with worry when he got the text from Lestrade. John had immediately called the inspector. The relief he felt when Sherlock answered the phone was immeasurable, and next came the surprise-Sherlock sounded _happy_ to hear his voice (after the general shock had worn off, of course) and that, combined with the relief that the detective was okay, actually made John feel happy too.

His phone went off, causing him to jerk involuntarily. His body had been a bit twitchy ever since the incident. Dr. Manders assured him he was very lucky to not have been affected more by the trauma to his brain and this would work itself out in time, but it made him feel like an invalid again, which he did not like at all. For now, he was in a wheelchair until it was "time" for him to graduate to a cane. He wheeled over to the table and picked up his phone.

_Coming.  
-SH_

John breathed another sigh of relief, and moved away from the table and rolled next to the chair. About two minutes later, the door burst open, and Sherlock Holmes himself walked in. He stopped a few feet away from John, his face pale and his eyes full of wonder, as if he could hardly believe that John was sitting there in front of him. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Hello," John said uncertainly.

Sherlock blinked a few times, looking at John but not quite meeting his eyes. "Hello," he replied.

John looked him over-he seemed to be fine, except for the black eye, which looked rather nasty, but otherwise he appeared to be good. "So, you alright?" John asked, a bit awkwardly.

Sherlock seemed strangely struck by this. "Yes, of course I'm alright," he said flatly, though his voice sounded weak. "It's-you know-I'm, well, it's good that you're alive-I mean, _I_ think it's good you're alive-very good, I-" While he was speaking, he began an odd sort of pacing, making jerky, awkward gestures toward John at random times, still avoiding his eyes. "-I'm fine. _It_ was fine. Alright? I. Was. Fine."

John's heart clenched uncomfortably at this, this entire episode was just proving just how not fine Sherlock had been. _I'm sorry, _he wanted to say, but instead- "Sherlock."

"What?" The detective snapped.

"It's okay," John said. "I wasn't accusing you of anything."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged, and he sat heavily on the chair across from John. "I was fine," he said faintly. "I-" He shook his head, blinking again, and averted his gaze to the floor.

Without thinking, John reached out, putting a hand on the back of the detective's head and pulling him into his shoulder. The detective tensed for a moment, then he relaxed, slumping forward into John's chest.

"It's alright," John said softly into Sherlock's hair, keeping a firm hold on the detective. "It's alright..." He added, even more softly-"I'm here."

John could feel Sherlock's body trembling slightly underneath his arm, and he mentally cursed Mycroft and his people again for their mistake.

As he sat there with Sherlock, he could smell, only slightly, the faint scent of alcohol. His eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock never drank...though, he could tell the detective hadn't drank that much, not enough to even be a little tipsy, but the fact that he had done it at all told John more about how the doctor's "death" had affected him than anything Sherlock could say. He felt all at once a great rush of fondness and a wrenching guilt for his friend.

The both of them were quiet for a few minutes, remaining in their current position, the only sound Sherlock's breath, hot and soft on John's shoulder. "You idiot," John said finally, his voice light, "you should have known you wouldn't be rid of me _that_ easily."

Sherlock chuckled, though the sound was bitter and short. He burrowed further into John's shoulder, and mumbled something into the doctor's shirt. John felt the detective's cold fingers brush along his wrist, then curl around it, clenching hard.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Don't leave me again." The words were quiet, barely audible, and it was the most genuine, heartfelt plea John had ever heard the detective make. "_Please_." His voice was choked, strained. Those few, painful words had spoken volumes; John could see now that Sherlock needed John just like John needed him, not just to be his blogger, not just to pay the other half of the rent, not just a replacement for the skull, and not just the flatmate. He needed _him_, and everything that came with, just like John did.

"I won't." John said firmly. He knew that this really wasn't a promise he could honestly make, but as of now he didn't care.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, and John unconsciously tightened his grip, almost as a way to show that he was not going to leave.

Sherlock cleared his throat, sniffed, and made to sit up, and John moved his hand from Sherlock's head to his shoulder as the detective straightened up, giving it a squeeze before pulling it away.

Sherlock's eyes flicked down and up, studying his wheelchair, then finally moved over to meet John's questioningly.

"It should only be for a short time," John assured him. "Effects from the brain damage, that's all." He changed the subject before Sherlock could reply. "Now what the devil have you done to your face?" He gestured to the dark, ugly bruise over Sherlock's eye.

"I can't help it if people are idiots," Sherlock replied, his eyes still locked on John's. "Don't change the subject."

John let out a short, nearly inaudible sigh. "The damage was slight," John said. "The problems should work themselves out, but it's going to take some time. The drug though, Dr. Manders says it's completely worked its way out of my system; I suppose you could say I'm clean now."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "Good." Then, unexpectedly, a smile appeared, and John reciprocated the action.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Let's go home."

"Are you allowed-?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go home."

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading, as always! Do let me know your thoughts! :) **


	16. What You Have Done

16. What You Have Done

After a long eight weeks, Sherlock and John were finally back at 221B Baker Street. As they pulled up to the flat (in one of Mycroft's cars), Sherlock realized just how much he had missed home, they had been gone far too long. He could see from the look on John's face that the doctor was just as happy to be home.

John insisted on getting out of the car himself, he just needed Sherlock to get his wheelchair from the back. The detective didn't feel quite comfortable with this, but he obliged, knowing John, ever the soldier, was determined to do it himself.

And do it himself he did, though it took a good deal of effort. John was able to get out of the car without help. He was even so bold as to move to the back of the car to stand beside Sherlock while the detective pulled out the wheelchair.

The door of 221B opened, and Mrs. Hudson rushed down to meet them, running as fast as her hip would allow. "Boys!" She opened her arms wide, and the next moment Sherlock had an armful of his landlady, who had her other arm wrapped around John, her face buried in the doctor's jumper, and the wheelchair lay forgotten on the pavement.

Mrs. Hudson squeezed the two men so tightly their heads knocked against each other a bit painfully, but both hugged her back. Sherlock then heard her kiss John's head with a loud smack, then resume her position. After a good minute, she sniffed loudly and released the both of them, dabbing at her eyes with her hand. "Now, let's see about getting you upstairs," she said, taking on a more authoritative, but still warbling tone. She took John's arm, who nodded gratefully and the two began their slow journey up to the flat. Sherlock watched them for a moment, his dear landlady and his best friend, and felt an unexpected, strong rush of affection for the both of them. Mycroft would have his head if he knew-but he didn't care, he was happy this way.

"Sherlock, love, bring the wheelchair, would you?" Mrs. Hudson called over her shoulder, snapping the detective out of his reverie. He pulled up the wheelchair from the pavement and folded it up, then followed Mrs. Hudson and John with the wheelchair in hand.

###

In the end, they decided that it would be much easier if John used Sherlock's room until he could make it up the stairs on his own, and the detective agreed to sleep in John's room, though that wasn't at all what happened. John tired easily and went to bed much earlier than usual now, so Sherlock had plenty of quiet time to return to his long neglected experiments. When he finished, instead of moving up to John's room to sleep, he would move to the couch-though not as comfortable as sleeping in a bed, it was a more logical choice because he would be closer to John-and perhaps a sentimental choice-after everything it comforted him to know that his friend was alive, well, and sleeping in the next room, just a wall away.

Though John seemed happy to be home, Sherlock knew something was still wrong. The doctor laughed and smiled very little, and when he did, it didn't feel as genuine as it should have been. It was a barely noticeable change at first, but after a few days had passed, it was becoming blatantly obvious. Sherlock at first attributed it to the difficulty of his recovery, but it didn't take long to realize it wasn't just the recovery that was bothering him. He also noticed that John had begun to have nightmares again-they returned with a vengeance, plaguing not only his but also Sherlock's sleep.

One night, about two in the morning after what sounded like a particularly bad nightmare, John emerged from Sherlock's room, leaning heavily on his new cane (which he wasn't exactly supposed to be using yet, but John now absolutely refused to use the wheelchair), sweaty and pale.

"Sherlock?" John said blearily, noticing the detective sprawled, wide awake on the couch. "What are you doing out here?"

"What does it look like?" Sherlock responded, but not unkindly.

"I mean, what are you doing out _here_, aren't you supposed to be upstairs?" While he spoke, he tiredly dug the heel of his free hand in his eye.

"I...prefer the couch," Sherlock said uncomfortably.

"Every night?" John replied, hobbling into the room.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "You _know_ about that?"

"I'm not stupid," John said, lowering himself carefully into his armchair. "So?"

"So, what?" Sherlock asked, folding his arms across his chest and purposely avoiding John's gaze.

"Want to tell me why you've been sleeping on that couch instead of in a bed?" John said, a "well?" tone in his voice.

Sherlock looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Want to tell _me_ about your nightmares?"

John's wry smile drooped, and Sherlock mentally cursed himself. Not good. He had only meant to get John off his case, not hurt him, and he really didn't want to hear about the doctor's nightmares.

"I'm going back to bed," John said curtly._ Definitely the wrong thing to say, then. _

The doctor heaved himself up and began his staggering walk back to his room.

"John!" Sherlock said, an embarrassing pleading note coloring his voice, sitting up.

"I_ said_-" John whirled to face Sherlock, but cut off when he stumbled and fell, slumping to his knees, the cane clattering to the floor beside him.

"John-" Sherlock moved to him, his arm outstretched.

"_Don't_."

Sherlock withdrew his arm and waited. The doctor remained there for a few moments, taking long, deep breaths, and Sherlock just watched, unsure of what to do.

Finally, John slowly reached for his cane, and using it for support, stood up shakily.

"John?"

The doctor ignored him and returned to Sherlock's room, the door shutting quietly.

###

Sherlock also had reason to suspect something else besides the nightmares was bothering John, especially when an unannounced visitor arrived at their doorstep. John answered the door, and Sherlock, who was curled up in ihis armchair in the sitting room, was forced to listen as the visitor, who was the wife of Mr. Brown, the man who John had beaten while in his drugged state, berated the doctor. She gradually moved up to screaming at him for ruining her husband's life. From what Sherlock could tell from her sob choked screams, Mr. Brown's recovery was going poorly; the injuries to his neck and back had paralyzed the man from the abdomen down, and was likely never to walk again if things continued the way they were going.

"You should be locked up, Dr. Watson," the distraught woman shrieked at him, jabbing a finger at John's chest. "You _destroyed_ my husband's life and walked away scot free, all because the police say you were under the influence of some drug. Well, I don't believe it for a _second_!" She shouted, tears steaming down her face, punctuating the last word with a jab to John's chest. "You want to know what I think? I think you deserve to _rot_ for what you did! You should be ashamed-"

Sherlock had had enough. He stood up abruptly, revealing his presence in the room to his friend and Mr. Brown's wife. He pointed a finger at the woman. "Get out." He hissed, glowering dangerously. She opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut her off. "Perhaps you didn't hear me properly the first time," Sherlock said, his voice venomous. "I said, Get. _Out_." His anger was pulsing in his chest, hot, heavy and absolutely begging to be released. He was itching to tell her the million things he deduced about her, make her hurt like she had hurt John, but an annoying, conscience like voice in the back of his mind (that sounded too much like John for comfort) warned him not to, it wouldn't help John in the slightest.

The woman stared back for only a moment before faltering under Sherlock's piercing glare, then her entire demeanor seemed to sag, her furious expression melting away. "I just hope you realize what you have done," she said, her voice choked, and suppressing a sob, she turned and left, slamming the door. John jolted visibly at the sound. He stood there for what felt like hours, his back to Sherlock. His shoulders hunched, and he gripped his cane tightly with both hands, head bowed.

"John?" Sherlock said uncertainly.

John didn't answer, his whole body shuddering once, and for one awful moment Sherlock thought the doctor was crying. The reality, though, was so much worse-John turned around to face Sherlock, and the detective almost wished he hadn't. John's lost, defeated and guilty expression somehow was more terrible than tears.

"I...I think I need..." John's voice was weak as it trailed off. "I..." He cleared his throat. "Bed." He said quietly, not looking at Sherlock. "I'm...going to go to bed."

_It's only three in the afternoon,_ Sherlock almost said, but he decided that right now, pushing the issue was not a smart idea. Instead, he watched his friend shuffle away and into the room, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

The detective followed after, standing awkwardly in the doorway of his room. John had abandoned his cane and was now lying on Sherlock's bed, his back facing the detective. Suddenly, it all made sense, in fact, Sherlock was displeased that it had taken him so long to realize it- John still felt guilty about the crimes he unwittingly committed while on the 1A38Y2, though Sherlock couldn't understand _why_. It hadn't been John's fault, so why was the doctor feeling so guilty?

"I know you're there," John said, and Sherlock was reminded of when the doctor had said that exact thing to him, weeks ago, when John had been under the influence of the drug. The similarity was so eerie Sherlock didn't respond. John turned over and looked up at Sherlock, seeming to understand. "I just need to be alone for awhile," he said meekly. "Just for awhile. I'll be okay."

Sherlock nodded numbly and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. _I trust you._ The doctor smiled back, though it was small and perhaps a bit unsure.

"Well, good night then, I suppose," Sherlock responded quietly, and he backed out of the room, barely catching John's returning murmur of "good night".

**Author's Note: Yes, the angst in this chapter was completely necessary, John is physically better, but psychologically he needs just a bit of help. **

**Anyways, FYI, this story doesn't have long left, sadly...*sniff* there should only be two more chapters after this. Also, ****I will keep saying this, until you understand I mean it-THANK YOU for taking time to read this story and also for your reviews, I love to hear them! **


	17. I Deserve It

17. I Deserve It

_"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked-" Mr. Brown never finished. __Sudden, unbidden ferocity was burning in John's chest, so hot it felt as if he didn't act, he would be boiled alive at any moment. He brought the cane smashing down on the broken man at his feet, the cries of pain in his ears satisfying but not enough, never enough. The cane slammed down again and again. Faint, nagging impressions in the back of his mind told him that something was wrong, that he didn't _think_ like this, didn't act like this. They had been completely washed away, erased, as if they never had existed, the John Watson he knew never existed, and _this_ was who he was._

_He stopped for a moment, examining his work. Brown lay at his feet, sobbing, pathetic, bleeding, easily dispensable...John's fingers curled and uncurled around his cane, twitching reflexively. That time would come, but he didn't want to rush it. It would be over too soon and then he'd have to find another victim...tedious, far too tedious. _

_"Please, please," Brown snivelled. "Please...stop..."_

_This was too good, the man actually thought he could stir his sympathies by_ begging_. John chuckled softly. "What for?" Then he raised the cane again, relishing in the moment, when suddenly Brown disappeared and another broken, beaten man took his place. But this one didn't cry, didn't sob, didn't beg, and blindly John went on as if he hadn't been interrupted, waiting for the screams, the pleadings, but the man in the dark coat at his feet did nothing, just took the abuse silently, his body jerking with each blow._

_"John."_

_John froze at the sound, and the man at his feet rolled over, his features bloody and distorted, almost mangled. The twisted mouth opened. "_John_." The man stood up, but limply, as if he was a puppet, his limbs hanging at his side. There was no mistaking it now, the long coat, the blue green eyes and the dark curly hair-_

_"No! _No_!" The words felt as if they were ripped from his throat, and he tried to back away as the bloody, warped version of Sherlock Holmes charged at him._

_"John," Sherlock hissed again, his misshapen but at the same time familiar face too close to John's, seizing the doctor by the wrists and leaving crimson red handprints on his arms, his hands._

_John tried to escape, tried to run from the thing that resembled Sherlock and the blood, but he couldn't move, it was as it his feet were cemented to the spot._

_"You did this to me," Sherlock snarled, his voice echoing strangely in his ears. "You did this to me."_

_Behind Sherlock, Mr. Brown rose up, as disfigured and disgusting as Sherlock, and so did the other two victims, screaming at him, coming too close. They surrounded him, and John tried to push them away, his heart pounding frantically in his chest, the desperation swallowing him whole, he didn't want to see any more blood, please, no more blood-_

"NO!" John awoke screaming, his body pitching forward violently, still trying to escape from his captors. He was breathing so hard he thought he might hyperventilate, each breath ragged and desperate.

All of his nightmares lately had been a lot like this, remembering the things he had done and the people he had hurt, which was horrible enough, but this one was different. His heart was practically thrashing itself against his ribcage, the image of the demonic, macabre version of his friend was all he could see, the slack mouth, the hissing voice, the blood...

His entire body was trembling, especially his hands, which were shaking so hard he could barely reach for the clock on Sherlock's bedside table-what was that on his hands?

He switched on the lamp, and his eyes widened. Blood, all over his hands-blood dripping down his arms, oh, there was blood _everywhere_-

He practically rolled out of bed, not even bothering to look for his cane. He stumbled forward on the floor, clawing his way because he couldn't walk, his body was so weak, so useless. The next thing he knew he was in the bathroom, clutching onto the faucet and turning on the water as hot as it would go-hot water killed germs, hot water killed blood-

John was aware for just a moment that he had the water on too hot, that it was hurting his hands, but he ignored it, better he suffer, better he pay for all the things he had done, the blood he had spilled, the bones he had broken, the _lives_ he had broken.

_i'msorryi'msorryi'msorry_

If he could just wash the blood off his hands, maybe he could make it okay, but he couldn't get it off, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

_You did this to me_

_I didn't mean to, I didn't want to_

Something seized John's arm, and the doctor looked up and saw for one horrible second the Sherlock from his nightmare, and he backed away. Whatever was holding him tightened their grip, keeping him from moving any farther.

"John!" Sherlock said, and it was his own voice now, the one that John knew so well, and it sounded concerned, scared.

It was if John had snapped awake from another dream, and the distorted man vanished to reveal the real Sherlock. Relieved and now properly back in reality, John was suddenly aware of the scalding pain in his hands, the heat of the room and the steam rising up from the sink.

"Sherlock?" He croaked.

Instead of answering, the detective reached over and turned the water to cold, pulling John's tender, burned hands from the sink, waiting for the steaming water to cool down. When it did, Sherlock, in an unusually gentle manner, put John's hands under the water. It felt cool and refreshing, dulling the ache in his hands. A minute later, Sherlock turned off the water and handed John a towel. John couldn't help but feel touched by the gesture as he dried his hands.

"Come on," Sherlock said gruffly, and he pulled him out of the bathroom and into the sitting room, heading towards the couch. On the ground, a blanket lay crumpled on the floor, and John realized Sherlock must have heard him and come immediately to investigate. He felt embarrassed of how he had lost his head, he could only imagine how insane he must have looked scrubbing his hands nearly to death.

Sherlock sat John on the couch. "Try to calm down," he said quietly, briefly putting a hand on his shoulder. He knelt down in front of him as John worked on taking deep, slow breaths.

John felt a bit uncomfortable under Sherlock's analyzing, unwavering gaze, so he resorted to staring down at his hands.

They both said nothing for a few minutes. Sherlock silently took John's hands, turning them over and inspecting them carefully.

"How many times has this happened, John?" Sherlock spoke suddenly, his low voice breaking the silence. He wasn't looking at John, still examining the doctor's hands as if they were part of a mildly interesting experiment.

John cleared his throat and tried to find his voice. "The-the nightmares, or-?"

"I know about the nightmares," Sherlock said impatiently. "I mean this." He held up one of John's hands.

John's eyebrows furrowed. "This is the only time-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please don't insult my intelligence, I can see the old burns on your hands." He dropped John's hand and placed his own underneath his chin, watching him.

John didn't reply, but he knew Sherlock didn't need an answer. The detective could probably tell how old the burns were by just looking at them. It had only been happening for a few days-but this was the first time it had been this extreme, before he would wake up after his nightmares and head straight to the bathroom to wash his hands, though never for as long as tonight. Tonight had been manic and completely out of his control, and he was grateful Sherlock noticed and stopped him before he had done even more damage to his hands.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know." John lied, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Then, he reconsidered, and spoke again, so softly he barely even heard himself. "Because I deserve it."

Sherlock gave a short, sarcastic bark of a laugh. "Now that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say." John's head snapped up to look at Sherlock.

"It's true," John said defensively.

"You think hurting yourself is going to make up for anything?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly. "Do you _really_ think this will help?"

"I don't expect you to understand," John shot back. "Do you know what it's like to go through every night, going through it all over and over again, watching yourself lose control all over again and hurt people just because they're _there_, and then you wake up and it's like you didn't wake up at all because the nightmare is your life? Do you want to know what Brown wanted that day he came to the flat? Do you?" Now that he had started talking, he seemed unable to stop, his words tumbling out all after another in a rush, and he realized he sounded a bit crazy but he couldn't get himself to care.

"He asked me to take a look at his wife because she was sick," John went on. "He just wanted me to check on his wife, and I beat him half to death for it. Because of me, he'll probably never walk again. Do you know what that feels like? Knowing that you completely ruined someone else's life?"

Sherlock was just staring him, looking shocked by John's outburst. After a short hesitation, he spoke slowly. "No, but that doesn't mean you should-"

"Why shouldn't I?" John said, his voice nearing a yell. "You know what happened to the other ones I hurt, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's mouth was pressed into a firm line. "Don't tell me you looked into it," he said, his voice soft, almost pitying.

"Yeah, I looked into it," John replied. "The first one, she was just a kid, I didn't even know her, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was going into university, had a scholarship, but that's all over for her now, because of me. And the other, I knew him in uni, we were good friends and now he's at home under the care of his wife for who knows how long..." John trailed off.

Sherlock stared back at him and remained silent, as if waiting for him to go on.

"It's just...if they're suffering, because of me, I should be suffering too. It doesn't matter how sorry I am for what I did...it just doesn't feel like enough."

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "And hurting yourself is enough?" He sounded almost angry. "_Torturing_ yourself, is that going to help Brown walk again?"

John ducked his head, looking at his hands.

"Will it help that girl get her scholarship back?"

"No." John said quietly.

"How about your friend from university?" Sherlock continued sharply. "Will he suddenly recover if you go on like this?"

John didn't answer, his cheeks burning.

"_Will he_?"

"No! No, of course he won't!" John roared. "Of course I bloody know it really won't help! Maybe it's selfish, I don't know, but it makes me-it makes me feel better-"

"Better how?" Sherlock demanded. "This just makes it all _worse_! Do you think you'll ever be satisfied? It won't ever be enough, John, don't you see? You'll keep going and going and it will never, ever be enough for you."

John felt as if Sherlock had just hit him over the head. "Well, what do you expect me to do?" He shouted. "I can't just stop it, Sherlock, I can't-I can't-_can't _do this anymore-"

He didn't know what exactly triggered it, but suddenly all the emotions and feelings he had been holding back, the guilt, the fear, the pain, were all released in a single moment, and the next thing he knew he was crying into his burnt hands, his entire body shaking from the sudden, violent outburst of emotions. He was sobbing so hard he thought he might be sick, biting hard on his hand to try to block the sobs , but now that he had started he couldn't seem to stop. He barely even noticed when Sherlock climbed onto the couch next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder and yanking him close, and John slumped onto Sherlock's chest without protest. As soon as he did so, the detective's arm tightened around John's shoulder.

John didn't know how long they sat there, John crying harder than he had cried in years, and Sherlock waiting patiently, letting the sobbing run its course. Though it was a bit humiliating, John somehow knew this had to happen. It felt good, painful and satisfying all at once, and he couldn't help but feel glad that Sherlock was still here. John had almost expected him to run off screaming in the other direction, but he was here, and John knew that on that day back in St. Bart's, when he had met the enigmatic, odd, brilliant detective, choosing to be that detective's flatmate had been the best decision he had ever made, because he had gained the very best friend he had ever had.

When the crying spell finally ended, John sat up just a bit, just so that he could look Sherlock in the eye. As he did this, the detective's arm dropped from John's shoulder to the crook of his elbow. John wiped his face a little sheepishly, and gave Sherlock a little half smile. "Sorry about that," he said hoarsely.

Sherlock didn't seem to know what to say. He jerked his head to the side. "It's...fine." He gave his small, one cornered smile and withdrew his arm.

John sniffed and leaned back into the couch. "Good...I think." He took a deep, shuddering breath, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

"John." Sherlock said after a short silence, his voice rough.

"Yes?"

"I just...just thought I should say..."

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who was looking very uncomfortable. The detective cleared his throat and started again. "When you...when I thought you were- dead, I regretted never...never saying that...that-" Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, and said the next words so quietly John had to strain to hear them.

"That I need you."

John didn't know what to say, he had never expected Sherlock would admit anything like this out loud, but this entire ordeal had been so life altering it shouldn't have been so surprising; they had changed, their friendship had changed.

"Anyways, that's all I wanted to say." Sherlock said quickly.

John smiled to himself, and the two of them were quiet again.

"So."

"So."

"You feel like sleeping?"

"Not really."

"Good, neither do I."

John settled further into the couch, and Sherlock brought his knees to his chest.

"We could watch a movie." John suggested.

"Is that...is that what you want to do?"

"Sounds fine to me."

"Pirates?"

"_Definitely_ Pirates."

**Author's Note: Ahh! We're so close to the end...But I hope you enjoyed, let me know what you thought about this chapter!**

**Oh, and be sure to follow me so you can catch my next story, which is currently in the works. It ****should be interesting! ;)**


	18. Epilogue-Adjusting

18. Epilogue-Adjusting

"Oh no, you don't," Mrs. Hudson scolded, catching Sherlock and John halfway out the door, wearing only slightly guilty expressions. "You two are not leaving this flat until you've finished eating."

Both men looked completely crestfallen. "Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock complained. "A _quadruple_ murder, locked from the inside-"

"I don't care if it was the Prime Minister and the Queen themselves," Mrs. Hudson said. "My sister sent over that casserole for you boys, and I expect you to eat it before she gets here. Now come back and sit _down_!"

Sherlock grumbled the whole way back to the table, but John, as always, attempted to be more pleasant about it, beating the detective back to the table even though he was still walking with a cane. She could tell, though, that he was just as disgruntled about being held back just for her sister's casserole as Sherlock was. The detective began shoveling the food in his mouth at top speed, reminding Mrs. Hudson terribly of a teenage boy-then he glanced at John and stopped, having remembered that the doctor, though having done quite well, was still recovering from the brain damage and the illness from the drug, and was not able to eat very fast at all. The detective slowed considerably, though only Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock sneaking bites off John's plate so he could help him move along faster.

It had been three weeks since John and Sherlock had come home, and this was the first crime scene John was well enough to accompany Sherlock to. Both were quite ecstatic to be working together again, though they'd never admit it out loud.

"Finally!" Sherlock said approvingly when they had finished. "Come on, John, we can't let Lestrade have all the fun!" He sprung out of his seat, kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek (_the game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!_) and hurried to the door. He waited rather patiently for John, who was easing himself onto the floor from his seat, using his cane as a guide. Neither detective or landlady moved to help him, though the landlady in question sorely wanted to. They had received little advice from John's doctors on his recovery process because it was relatively simple and was mostly a matter of time, but they had been told by John's doctors to let him do as much as possible on his own.

After about a minute, John was standing up and moving toward the door, finally joining Sherlock, who grinned and opened up the door, and the doctor and the detective went out. "Four murders at _once_!" Mrs. Hudson heard Sherlock shout. "It must be Christmas!"

###

Sherlock returned a few hours later with John, who was practically dead on his feet. In all the excitement of doing a case again, Sherlock had forgotten that John's health was not quite up to par and had taken his time, and after a good hour and a half had passed, their venture back into work had drained the doctor's energy. The detective finally noticed when he turned to make an observation to John and there was no faithful doctor standing behind him. It only took a moment to find John sitting in the corner, fast asleep. So Sherlock made an unusually quick wrap up, woke John, and took him home, having what he needed anyways.

Now in the flat, instead of going to Sherlock's room to sleep, John went to his armchair and settled into it as Sherlock went straight back to his microscope, laughing to himself in an almost hysterical way, the case had proved to be most interesting. "This is brilliant, John, brilliant!" He called to him, and began to babble about some chemical that would prove that the murderer was one of the victims. "It's the only thing that makes sense!" He sat down at his microscope and began to work, still talking, and John took the newspaper from the table and began to read, voicing "mmhm"s and "I see"s when appropriate.

_Child drowned in Thames river... Baffling quadruple murder.._. _Lyon Green arrested for manslaughter... _John moved on over these, for now not that interested. Those articles were followed by a slightly larger, more interesting article.

"Sherlock?"

"Not now, I'm almost-"

"What was the name of that man?"

Sherlock seemed to freeze, his whole body stiffening.

John, though, still plowed on. "You know-the one who-"

"Yes, I know." Sherlock cut him off, his voice suddenly cold. "I'm surprised you don't remember. Dominic Wood," he said, spitting the name as if it was a particularly nasty thing in his mouth. "What about him?"

"Well, there's an article in here about him-"

Sherlock rose from his chair, suddenly agitated. "Let me see." He moved over to John, his hand outstretched expectantly. A little uncertainly, John handed the detective the newspaper.

Sherlock scanned the article for a few moments, then handed the newspaper back to John. "Not how I would have chosen for him to go," he said darkly, "but beggars can't be choosers. Now if you'll excuse me..." He gave a quick nod and went back to his microscope.

"You never did tell me what he wanted," John said after a short silence. Sherlock had, since the incident, told John everything he had missed, even including the part where Sherlock beat Wood (though John suspected the detective had left quite a few details out of the story), but the question still remained-why?

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock replied curtly, pointedly looking into his microscope.

"Of course it does, Sherlock!" John insisted. "The man tried to kill me, and I think I deserve to know why."

Sherlock huffed and looked up. "Fine. Four years ago, I ensured the death sentence of a criminal team consisting of a Victor and Violetta Cruz. Dominic Wood was their son, he wanted revenge on me, and in the end went to Moriarty, thus doing it through you to hurt me."

John blinked, a bit surprised by how quickly the detective went through it. "Is that the whole story?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The short version."

"Did you know that all along?"

"I didn't realize the connection until Lestrade had the man carted off on an ambulance," Sherlock said shortly.

"Oh." John paused. "Well, are you ever going to give me the long version?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment. "Another time, John. As of now something _much_ more interesting has my attention." He returned to his microscope, and John let it be, he wouldn't be able to get the detective to talk again for at least one hour, at most several. He set aside the article and moved back to one of the articles he had originally skipped.

_Yesterday morning, Dominic Wood was found dead in his hospital room days before his court case , the cause of death a bullet to the forehead. Dominic Wood was arrested five weeks ago for alleged crimes against blogger detective Sherlock Holmes and his companion, bachelor John Watson..._

_###_

"No! Go home!"

Ah. Sherlock was back. John could hear the detective stomping up the stairs, grumbling loudly about something, but who was he talking to?

"I said, stay back! Baaack."

"Sherlock?" John called curiously, looking around from his chair. The door opened moments later, and a ruffled, disgruntled detective emerged, glowering profusely.

Before John could ask, however, the answer presented itself, pattering out from behind the detective, panting excitedly and tail wagging.

"Sherlock, what-?" John asked, mystified, rising from his chair slowly and leaning on his cane for support. At seeing John, the little dog, a beagle puppy, by the looks of it, began to wag his tail even more frantically, then took off, scrambling and sliding on the hard floor toward John. Just for a moment John forgot how hard it was for him to move lately and knelt, and caught the speeding puppy, who immediately began licking John on the face, climbing up the doctor's chest, slipping, and climbing up again excitedly. Without even thinking about it, John began to scratch the dog's ears, not really caring at the moment where it had come from or why, just enjoying the warmth of the small cuddly dog and how easily petting was coming to him, his hands had felt so stiff and useless lately, but now, amazingly, he wasn't having any trouble.

"Where did you come from, buddy?" John asked the puppy, who had rolled over to the ground and was cheerfully accepting a belly rub from the doctor, panting happily.

"He followed me home," said Sherlock irritably, taking off his scarf. "Wouldn't go away."

John laughed, imagining the innocent little dog he was petting now following the detective home, tail wagging, and he could just see the bemused expression the detective must have had on his face when he couldn't get the dog to leave.

"Why'd you follow him, huh?" John said, grinning ridiculously as the puppy leapt up and back into John's waiting lap. "Must have been pretty desperate to follow tall, dark and scary here home." The dog responded with another lick to his face.

"Ha, ha," Sherlock said drily, hanging up his coat. "And why are you talking to it?"

"Jealous?"

"For goodness' sake," Sherlock said exasperatedly, and he marched past John and further into the flat. The dog gave a sort of yip, and after licking John one more time ran to go follow the detective.

"I need to call the shelter-_get off_!" Sherlock yelped. John picked up his abandoned cane and carefully got to his feet, watching the detective trying to get to his phone and simultaneously escape the determined, hopelessly devoted little dog at his heels.

"Don't call the shelter," John said. "Come on, does he even belong to anybody?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, finally pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"You do too," John shot back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. He belonged to an older man for a short time, but was recently made a stray a few weeks ago after his owner dumped him outside his flat-stop that infernal hovering!" He directed this last statement to the dog, who had not given up trying to get the detective's attention.

"Come on," pleaded John, who suddenly felt a need to keep this dog, "can't we keep him?" The question was childish, true, but right now John didn't care. "Look, he likes you."

"_No_ thank you, I am calling the shelter." Sherlock said. "We don't need a dog here, it would just get in the way." He strode over to his armchair, looking irate as the puppy followed him still. He sat down heavily. Immediately the dog took this as an invitation, and he leapt up and joined the detective on the chair, crawling into his lap.

"Off!" Sherlock commanded as he put the phone to his ear, but as usual the dog was completely oblivious to his requests.

"He just wants attention," John said. "I don't think he's going to stop until you give him some."

Sherlock humphed and tried to ignore both the dog and the barely concealed hopeful expression on John's face, but he failed on both counts. He sighed dramatically, lowering the phone. "Alright, then," he said in defeat, and as if on cue, the dog jumped up onto Sherlock's chest much like he had done to John and began to lick the detective's face. "No. No!" Sherlock snapped at the dog, his expression a strange cross of disgusted and pleased, but the dog carried on. "I said you could stay-not _salivate_ all over me-" As he spoke, the detective, in an almost absentminded manner, began to pet the dog, who settled down in Sherlock's lap after a few moments, the dog's eyes rolling back in his head with pleasure. "Don't get comfortable," Sherlock reminded both dog and his friend. "This is just temporary."

Of course, neither John or the newest resident of 221B paid this any mind.

###

The newly christened Gladstone ("It was the name of my dog when I was a kid," John had mused, and they had agreed immediately on it, neither of them were very patient with the naming process) became just what John needed to aid his recovery. When before, things had been moving along very slowly, Gladstone helped things go a bit faster, forcing John to be a tad more active and put his body to work again in ways that he could, gradually pushing things back to normal. Not only that, but Sherlock himself was more tolerant of Gladstone than John had seen him be for any creature of any kind, letting the puppy follow him wherever he liked (as long as he didn't get in the way) allowing the dog on some occasions to sit on his lap or beside him while he was thinking, scratching the dog's ears while retreating into his mind palace. It didn't take long to see that Gladstone was definitely there to stay.

Sherlock did not look into Dominic Wood's murder-it was all too clear that it had been Moriarty's doing, having used Wood for his purpose and had now disposed of him. Project 1A38Y2 was now officially concluded, every drop of it now accounted for and destroyed, the information and files on the drug stored away indefinitely. The world never received any more information about the serial beatings, nor did they ever see anything again about 1A38Y2 or learn that Dr. John Watson had ever been on it. That was perfectly fine with both the doctor and the detective, who were wanting to move past it and go on with their lives-but both knew they never would, not really, or at least, they would never get their lives back the same way as they were before. The entire experience had opened their eyes to how much they really depended on and trusted each other, and what life would have been like without the other there, which was truly, to say the least, an unappealing prospect.

They didn't quite know where their bond stood now-the title of friend didn't really seem to do it justice, and strangely enough neither did the title of brother, though it came much closer to the mark. The title of best friends, that seemed to suit them more than anything else. They were both comfortable with the idea, and after all-Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends, he only has (and needs) one.

###  
_Two months later_

"Come on, John!" Sherlock shouted as the two of them ran, full speed down the wet streets of London, ignoring the storm clouds threatening overhead. They were in pursuit of the second criminal that week, a young man in his late twenties.

"He gave the same bracelet to both his lover and his wife-" Sherlock called to John, who was following closely behind, and he leapt easily over an overturned trash bin as the man darted right into an alleyway-"and he needed to get the bracelets back before anyone noticed the connection-" Sherlock shook his head, they were never going to catch him this way-"John, go around that way, we'll corner him," he said. John didn't ask questions, but obeyed, running off in the direction indicated. Sherlock hoped John would make it-he had been doing well, but his leg still had a tendency to lag sometimes...Sherlock began to run even harder, pushing himself as hard as he could.

He reached the next intersection in the alleyway and his stomach clenched when John was not there like he was supposed to be, there was no way they could corner him now. They'd have to wait until the next one, if they even made it that far.

Then, unexpectedly, the man stopped dead, gaping at something in the darkness. "Don't move," a harsh voice commanded, and John stepped forward, his gun trained on the criminal, his expression and posture steely and professional, his aim not twitching in the slightest. This was John at the top of his game, confident, strong, and prepared for anything. There was absolutely no trace of the man who up until a month ago, could barely walk without a cane.

The man's arm moved, perhaps to pull a weapon of his own, and Sherlock opened his mouth to warn John but the doctor was already ahead of him. He fired once into the sky as a warning, stepping forward. "Don't even _think_ about it," John hissed, and Sherlock realized that whatever weapon the man had been meaning to pull he would have used on Sherlock, not John.

John took two more steps forward, close enough now that the gun was almost touching the man's chest.

Sherlock saw the man's arm twitch again toward his weapon. The detective didn't believe he would actually try again, but John seemed to not want to take any chances. John sprung, and after a flurry of quick, precise moves, the doctor had the man pinned to the ground, his face in the dirt and arm twisted behind his back, braced there by John's foot. John made a show of cocking his gun, then he pointed it at the man's head.

"I thought I told you not to move," John said coolly, and then suddenly sirens sounded from somewhere far off to their left. Before they knew it, Lestrade and half of Scotland Yard were all there. Some officers removed the criminal, and a few even clapped John on the back as a sort of congratulations as they arrested the man. Eventually, the man was taken away and Scotland Yard left, leaving Sherlock and John standing alone in the dark alleyway.

"Nice work," Sherlock said finally. "Good to see you back in action."

John grinned at him, still looking exhilarated from the chase. "It's good to be back." He looked around, and back to Sherlock. "You know," he said casually, tucking his gun back in his coat, "I think there's a good Chinese place around here, stays open until late. Dinner?"

"Starving," Sherlock replied, and the two of them headed in the direction of the restaurant, heartily discussing the night's events and the finer points of the case, both satisfied with how everything had turned out.

THE END

**Author's Note: And three months to the day that I posted the first chapter of this story, we come to the end...I absolutely loved writing this and sharing this with you all. A very special thank you to every single one of you, especially those who followed this story from day one. I would go through names, but I would hate to miss someone, so you know who you are! I mean it-THANK YOU ALL. Your reviews and feedback always made my day, and it made writing it that much more worth it knowing that you guys enjoyed it. So do review and let me know what you thought of this epilogue! **

**On a second note, again, be sure to follow me so you can catch my next story. The first chapter should be posted in the next couple days, so be on the lookout for it! :) **


	19. Deleted Scene-Molly and Mrs Hudson

**Hello all! No, this is _not_ a continuation of the story, and I apologize if I did get your hopes up-but I was going through more withdrawals from this story and wanted to share some deleted scenes that would have made it in the story, but in the end were cut. I hope you enjoy this!**

**This deleted scene would have been set somewhere around Chapter 4 and Chapter 5. **

Deleted Scene-Molly and Mrs. Hudson

"Hello, is this Inspector Lestrade?"

'Detective Inspector,' Lestrade wanted to say, but he recognized the voice on the other end of the phone. It was Sherlock's unbelievably patient and long suffering landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and she sounded anxious. It almost made him laugh, how only Sherlock Holmes, one of the most sociopathic (or close to it) men in the world, would get a landlady who actually cared about his wellbeing rather than when he paid rent.

"This is," Lestrade replied. "How can I help you?" He asked, even though he knew exactly what she wanted.

"Oh, yes, I was just wondering about Sherlock and John…I just got back from my sister's and neither of them are here-"

Lestrade swallowed uncomfortably. How this job had fallen to him, he didn't know. This shouldn't have been entirely new-this wasn't the first time he had to go to a family and deliver the news that their loved one had been killed or hurt, or that they were part of something darker and more dangerous than they had ever imagined that person to be…but this was different. He knew both these men personally, and he even knew the landlady to an extent. He had been to Sherlock and John's flat plenty of times, had spoken to her, interacted with her. He knew that the last thing he wanted to do was tell her the awful news that Sherlock was in the hospital-and it was all because of the man who had appeared to be the best friend the detective had ever had.

His phone beeped, and he looked down at the screen.

**INCOMING CALL**

**St. Bart's Hospital**

Lestrade had been waiting for this call-he had been trying to get a hold of them for awhile now, but he didn't want to hang up on Mrs. Hudson, especially when she was so worried.

"They're alright, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade said hurriedly, which was as close to the truth as he could manage.

"But there is this call on the other line I need to take-can I ring back later?"

"Oh, of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding a bit less anxious. "I'm sure you have much more important calls to take. I'll wait for your call."

"Thank you, I'll call you as soon as I can. Goodbye."

###

Molly had just left-her bright but still flustered presence had not been entirely welcome, so Sherlock had pretended to be asleep, turning away from her and pulling up the scratchy covers.

"I, er, brought these for you just in case you wanted something to do," Molly had said awkwardly. Sherlock had heard her shifting the files nervously in her hands. "Um, I know there's not a lot you can do now, but when you're awake, you know-" There was the sound of the files plopping on the bedside table- "you could look them over. You'll like them, probably," and her voice began to quicken, her words tumbling out one after another in a rush. Sherlock had to repress the urge to roll his eyes as she began her usual nervous babble, and he tuned her out while the babbling ran its course.

"…strangled from behind, it looks like…oh. this is probably boring you-I'll-leave then-"

He heard her tapping, nervous footsteps retreat towards the door. "Feel better soon!" She burst out finally, and he heard the door open and slam shut again.

###

Unfortunately, Sherlock's visitors for the day did not end at Molly and Lestrade. He wanted nothing more to be left alone, forever, perhaps, but people would not stop coming into his room. Wasn't there rules that limited visitor hours? If so, when did they end, and why were they taking so long to do so?

So when the third visitor for the day opened the door, Sherlock rolled over and drew the covers up over his head, hoping whoever had arrived would get the point and leave.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's heart dropped like a stone as he recognized the voice of his landlady. Still, he kept the covers up over his head. He couldn't face her, not right now.

This didn't faze Mrs. Hudson, for in the next moment, he felt her warm hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock Holmes, I _know_ you're awake." She said, her voice stern.

Sherlock grunted, but didn't remove the covers. "Excellent deduction."

"You know you can't fool me," Mrs. Hudson said, and without further ado she pulled the covers away from his head.

"Lestrade told me everything," she said softly, as Sherlock retreated into his pillow, burying his face in the fabric. Sherlock tensed at those words, had the inspector told her absolutely everything-?

"I've _told_ you to be more careful on those stairs, if you weren't always rushing about-"

Sherlock relaxed, but smirked at Lestrade's choice of a cover story.

"-so unlucky that John was up at his sister's, you should have been more careful-"

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said loudly.

"Really, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson scolded. "Stop hiding and look at me, I know you're probably embarrassed that you took a fall down the stairs-"

Sherlock snorted. If only that was all it was…

"Sherlock," she said more firmly, and he huffed, then turned over, looking up at her, giving her what she wanted.

Mrs. Hudson let out a little gasp of surprise, perhaps she had not been expecting him to look like this. Sherlock stared back at her, in an almost defiant way, daring her to look away.

She didn't, but instead reached over and placed a gentle hand on his bruised, swollen brow. The light, gentle touch felt good on his hot skin, and he closed his eyes, feeling just the smallest, tiniest bit of tension drain away.

After a moment, she moved away, and he listened to her retreating footsteps, soft and quiet on the tile floor, then return seconds later, and something cold and wet was placed on his brow. He winced at the sudden coldness and the water that trickled down the side of his face, but after a painful moment it began to feel better, easing some of the ache.

Nothing was alright-in fact, he felt as if nothing would ever be alright again-but for that minuscule, short moment in time, he was fine.


End file.
